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The Soul 

of Paris 



Two Months in the French 

Capital During the 

War of 1914 



Random Notes of an American 
Newspaper Man 




B^ WILLIAM J. GUARD 



PRICE, FIFTY CENTS 



The Soul 

of Paris 



Two Months in the French 

Capital During the 

War of 1914 



Random Notes of an American 
Newspaper Man 




By WILLIAM J. GUARD 






TO THE 
MEMORY 

OF MY 
FATHER 



i>.%r^ 



Copyright, 1914, 

by ■William J. Guard. 

Copyright, 1914, 

by The Sun Printing and Publishing Company 



)C(,A'388C60 

DEC -3 l&K 






05 




A FOREWORD. 



)HEN a man reaches the indiscreet age of 
fift^-two and has the impudence to publish 
a hook it 's not a Preface ivhich he should 
Tvrite, hut an Apology. The chapters con- 
tained "mithin these covers were never in- 
tended to assume the dignity of a Book- 
The^ Were begun as a sort of pastime, something to give the 
writer a mental distraction while other business required his 
remaining in Paris during the first two months of the War of 
1 9 1 4. The first two or three were mailed to my friend, George 
M. Smith, Managing Editor of The Evening Sun of New 
York- He Was told to ^^ chuck 'em in the waste basket if he 
couldn't find any use for them" Smith apparently thought 
they Were worth while and cabled me to send some more. It is 
altogether his fault that I k^pl this correspondence going. The 
public may never forgive him, hut I owe him a deep debt of 
gratitude. The reader may declare my chapters "rot," but 
that makes no difference to me, for I never enjoyed anything 
so much in my life as the writing of these "Random Notes" in 
Paris during the War of 1914, for which this man Smith is 
chiefly responsible. 

Gentle reader, bear Smith no malice. He meant well, and 
if this prefatory apology is not convincing you dont have to 
read the book, for I am quite sure there will be any number of 
other books written upon the same subject by literary persons 
much less obscure and much more capable of dealing with it 
than I. However, it is my first chance after over thirty years 
of "common or garden" newspaper work to have a book printed 
With my name on the title page. Now, it is my humble opinion 
that no book is Worth writing and much less worth reading thai 



is not written because it cant help being written. I shall prob- 
ably never publish another book- (''Thank God!" I hear the 
readers sa}).) I simply cant help publishing this. It is mp ord^ 
chance to be a Real Author. And I have so man}) good friends 
who are Real Authors that I do want some title to recognition in 
their class. Perhaps hereafter they will consider me as some- 
thing more than a mere ex-Sunday Editor and actual Operatic 
Press Agent and really one of themselves. 

At all events these chapters are more or less a Human Docu- 
ment. I have made few if any changes in the original "copy" 
which I sent to The Evening Sun. That "stuff" was written 
on impulse, while I Was subject to all the emotions which any 
man of Celtic sensihility must have felt during the opening 
weeks of this War of Nations. At least they are honest and 
they are truthful as far as my lights would permit them to be. 
Are they Francophile? Perhaps; but none the less I trust are 
they Humanophile (a bastard word, I will admit to my purest 
critics) . I do not conceal my admiration for the French people, 
an admiration justified by facts. None the less I trust I have 
not failed to make clear my sympathy with the great masses of 
the German nation, whose salvation from the curse of military 
and so-called divine right autocratic slavery and regeneration 
into "a government of the people, for the people and by the 
people," is my profoundest hope. 

WILLIAM J. GUARD. 

New York, October 20, 1914. 



/ take this occasion also to express my thanks to Mr. William 
C. Reick, publisher of The Sun, for his courtesy in assigning me 
the right to reprint these letters. W. J. G. 




I. 



First Week of the War — An Optimist Disillusioned — Hoping 
Against Hope — Hon^ Mobilization Began — The France 
of I9I4 a New France — Americans Amazed fcp Parisian 
Sangfroid — Waiting for England. 

Paris, Friday, Aug. 7, 1914. 

HAVE before me several Paris newspapers dated 
Friday, July 3 1 , just one week ago. In them I 
find such "headlines" as "The Attitude of 
France: PubHc Opinion Should Not Be 
Alarmed"; "The European Crisis: A Gleam of 
Hope"; "France and Germany Deny the Mobili- 
zation of Their Reserves." Seven days have passed since then. 
It all seems like a dream. I look back over them and scarcely 
can realize that I have been in my waking senses. When on 
Friday forenoon, July 31, I strolled from my hotel to that 
rendezvous so well known to Americans who visit Paris 
periodically, Boyd Neel's, the Anglo-American broker's office 
at the corner of the Rues Daunou and Volney, just off the 
Boulevard des Italians, I found it crowded with faces familiar 
on Broadway and Wall street. 

It was anything but a cheerful gathering that I met. I was 
an Optimist; I refused to believe that there would be a general 
war. But I soon discovered that we Optimists were in a sad 
minority. Fact is, I believe I soon was in a minority of one. 
Truth to tell, everything seemed against me. Coin, which had 
been scarce for several days, was getting scarcer than ever, and 



The Soul of Paris 



the promised new Bank of France five, ten and twenty-franc 
nDtes were painfully slow in making their appearance. 

Nevertheless, and in spite of the odds against me, like a true 
Optimist I stood my ground. I still believed in Emperor William 
— believed that at least he was a good comedian ; that he would 
see the greatest opp)ortunity of his life to make a "grandstand 
play." 

No one among us doubted that the deciding vote — war or 
peace — rested with Emperor William. I must confess that I 
alone in that party advanced the idea that he would cast it for 
the cause of humanity. I really believed in the Kaiser, I say — 
believed that at the final critical moment he would come before 
the world's footlights and say : 

"Fellow Human Beings, my enemies have pictured me as a 
Man of War. They have belied me. To-day Europe is shaken 
from end to end by what? Bj? the fear of war! So be it! 
Europe says I can stop it — that its fate is in my hands. Once 
and for all I shall convince the world of the sincerity of my 
belief in the religion of Jesus Christ, of the conscience of my 
Divine Mission, of my acceptance of the axioms of the 
Sermon on the Mount by saying to the world, 'Now that you 
know what the fear of war means, imagine the terrors of war 
itself. I've let you have a foretaste of those terrors. Let it be a 
lesson to the world for a century hence. Who is the madman 
that for generations to come will want a European war? Not I! 
Let us have peace! And woe hetide the nation that injects a 
discordant note into the Universal Harmon^.' " 

''Silly twaddle!" I hear you say. 

Ah, my friend if the Kaiser only had had the heart and 
imagination and the power to have realized just such a "silly 
twaddle" idea would he not have gone down to history as the 
greatest exponent of humanitarian statesmanship the world has 
ever known? What an opportunity! What a tragic failure! 



The Soul of Paris 



I don't know how this war is gomg to end (I know how I hope 
it will end!), but even if Germany triumphs by force of arms 
I ask myself — I ask you — would she not ultimately be a greater 
Germany should she triumph by the moral force of which such 
an attitude on the part of the Kaiser would have been the 
sublimest expression? 

In justice to my American and British friends assembled 
around Boyd Neel I must confess that all those optimistic rav- 
ings were accepted with a spirit of incredulity which subsequent 
events quite justified. However, I'm not ashamed of my dream, 
and I hope the Kaiser himself may sometime find a copy of this 
letter and learn what a splendid opportunity — from an Ameri- 
can point of view — he missed of becoming a real "world's star 
actor." 

As the afternoon of Friday progressed even the Optimist 
began to weaken in his opinion. The crowds on the boulevards 
seemed to feel that something was going to happen. As one 
afternoon paper after another appeared it was eagerly snatched 
from the newsboys. When you stopped at the "terrasse" of a 
cafe to get a cool drink you were politely told that if you had 
no small money your fifty or one hundred- franc note could not 
be changed. A friend of mine who had several thousand francs 
of such money in his pocket hailed me to borrow thirty cents to 
pay his cabman. 

After dinner the boulevards were again crowded with prom- 
enaders. But not the least excitement was evident until about 
nine o'clock, when the news spread that Jaures, the great 
Socialist leader, had been assassinated by a "crank" in a little 
cafe in the Rue Montmartre. Strange to relate, there was no 
uprising of the proletariat and the precautions taken by the police 
almost seemed unnecessary. The fact that the Government had 
forbidden the exportation of all products of the soil or industry 



The Soul of Paris 



and removed the duty on grain made a deeper impression on the 
public mind. 

•^y J& JZf 

Saturday is here, and with it the universal feeling that, as 
former Foreign Minister Stephen Pinchot says in The Petit 
Journal, "The die is cast. We are on the eve of war. All the 
Powers are under arms. Austria has mobilized. Responding 
to this act, Russia in her turn has mobilized. Germany is 
mobilizing. France can do nothing else. Up to the last hour 
we had hoped against hope. We wished to believe that we 
should find among the Germans a desire for peace respondiaig 
to ours. We have sought every means of conciliation. We 
have failed!" 

You see Mr. Pinchot, too, was an Optimist as long as he 
could be. I feel less lonely. 

The boulevards were crowded early in the day. The 
first paper out. The Paris-Midi, made a feature of the Kaiser's 
proclamation, which concluded: 

"And now let us leave our fate in the hands of God. Go to 
church, kneel before God and pray that He may aid our valiant 
army ! " 

"Mich und Gott!" remarked a French friend who lives in 
New York as we read The Midi together. "Same old story ! 
Only trouble with the Kaiser is that he tpill <rjj to introduce a 
fourth person into the Trinity — himself." 

(Shockingly irreverent, I know, but I have to quote it.)' 

Side by side with the Kaiser's proclamation was "played up" 
the news from Rome that Italy would remain neutral. This 
was regarded as most significant. The French inferred that 
Italy's heart was with her Latin sister — a comforting thought. 



The Soul of Paris 



Still there is no definite news as to any further action on 
the part of the French Government, though every one is waiting 
— waiting. With some friends ws motor to the Bois. It is 
practically deserted! We spin around for an hour and stop 
at Amenonville for tea. Half a dozen tables only are occu- 
pied, though from an interior enclosure comes the sound of an 
orchestra playing tango music. Twenty or thirty young people 
are dancing. There is a restless air among the waiters. One 
stop. A few minutes later a messenger arrives for the man- 
ager. Instantly the latter hurries back to the dancers. 

"Stop that music!" he calls to the band. "The mobilization 
decree has just been announced. It begins at midnight. Play 
the 'Marseillaise.' " 

Instantly the band strikes up the national anthem. Every 
one joins. It winds up with cheers and tears of emotion. 
Every one hurries off to the city — clients, waiters and bands- 
men. It is goodby to gay Amenonville till the cruel, criminal 
war is over. 

Reaching the boulevards again we find them crowded as 
though it were a fete day. Everybody has an evening paper in 
his hand. The cafes are packed. Friends meet and the first 
question is, "When do you go?" Each feels that every daj'^'s 
delay is a day of shame. Yet there is no wild excitement. In- 
stead, there is a spirit of calm resolve, of sangfroid, one might 
say, among the men that quite upsets the old-fashioned notion 
of those who still speak of the "crazy Frenchman." There are 
a few hastily formed processions of irresponsible youngsters of 
the rowdy type who go along the streets shouting '*A Berlin!" 
remarks to me that he thinks that it is about tim.e that dancing 
of them tells me that the place will close this evening. Another 



10 The Soul of Paris 

and looking for shops with German names over the doors to 
smash their windows. But after reading Francisque Sarcey's 
description of the beginning of the war of 1 870 I can't help 
feeling that this is a new France — doubtless in large mecisure 
due to the growth of the sporting spirit observable during the 
past ten years in this country and the temperance and self-re- 
straint that it has imposed on the new generation- — and that it 
enters the war of 1914 with feelings far different from those 
of forty-four years ago. 

Saturday night wound up with healthy enthusiasm. . On 
every possible occasion the cafe bands played the "Mar- 
seillaise," in which every one joined lustily, and it was gen- 
erally followed by "God Save the King" and the Russian 
national hymn. The Am.erican who loves France for what his 
country in particular and the world in general owes here only 
regretted that the four-part harmony was not completed by 
"The Star-Spangled Banner." 

I had been invited to dinner in the Bois by Mr. E. M. 
Gattle, of New York, who had also invited two of the biggest 
diamond merchants in Paris, together with their wives, their 
sons and daughters and sons-in-law and daughters-in-law. 
The mobilization order upset my host's plans. The dinner 
had to be hastily improvised at a smart new hotel just 
oif the Boulevard des Italiens. It was a good dinner, never- 
theless, though served very unconventionally. Probably twenty- 
five persons were present. I learned that no sooner had they 
scented trouble than the two Parisian diamond men took steps 
to protect their precious wares. They and their associates at 
once divided their stocks of diamonds and each shipped part of 
his quota to London and the rest to the South of France, safe 
beyond the possible discovery or reach of the enemy. At ten 
o'clock the party broke up. Three of the younger men present 
had to start at midnight for their regiments. My host and his 



The Soul of Paris 1 1 

wife had all their hand baggage packed, and at midnight started 
for the St. Lazare station to wait three hours to take the train 
for Havre. 

When I strolled to the boulevard on Sunday forenoon I had 
to rub my eyes. It was like a desert! The auto buses had 
disappeared as if by magic! Hardly a taxi or horse cab in 
sight! The former had been requisitioned during the night. 
So with the auto buses, each of which in twenty minutes had 
been transformed to carry supplies to the front. After a week 
they are still away, but the taxis and horse cabs have become 
fairly numerous again; and most of the underground railroads 
are running with women ticket takers at the gates. Few shops 
are open, as the men are mobilized. In a few days Paris will 
have hardly any men except boys under twenty or men over 
forty-eight. 

The actual declaration of war on France by Germany pro- 
duced no visible change in the feelings of the Parisian public. 
The excuse of bombs thrown on Nuremberg by a French 
aviator was received with a sneer. Curiously enough, "Lohen- 
grin" had been announced for the next evening at the Opera. 
Needless to say, mobilization closed all the theatres. The 
only anxiety manifest was as to the action of England. "What 
will England do? Will she stand by us?" These were the 
questions every Frenchman asked his neighbor. The sigh of 
relief that arose from every Frenchman's breast when the news 
arrived that England had proved her loyalty to "a gentlemen's 
agreement" can better be imagined than described. No one who 
was not in Paris at the time can ever realize the intense anxiety 



12 The Soul of Paris 

of the French during those days of waiting for England to 
speak. 

Generally speaking, Americans here are being well cared for. 
Those who have letters of credit on Paris branches of American 
banks have always been able to gel advances. Drafts on big 
French banks at present are practically useless. My banker 
lets me have one hundred and fifty francs a week, which helps 
me keep my credit good at my hotel. There is widespread feel- 
ing among Americans here that there is too much "red tape" 
in Washington, and that we have lost our reputation for know- 
ing how to deal promptly with a practical question in a prac- 
tical way. 



The Soul of Paris 13 




II. 



How Little Was Known in Paris of What Was Happening 
Outside — Evef^one Preparing for Eventualities — Ameri- 
cans Grow Calmer — Parisians Cool and Confident. 

Paris, Wednesday, Aug. 12, 1914. 

AST Saturday I mailed The Evening Sun some ran- 
I dom notes in which I tried to give you some im- 

*^ pressions of the life of Paris during the opening 

week of the war. Where those letters — there were 
two envelopes — are is something to wonder over. 
They went in the mail to Havre presumably to 
catch the French liner France, whose sailing had been postponed 
from day to day. As far as we can learn in Paris the France 
is still in Havre and the Chicago (which was to have sailed last 
Saturday) also. 

Hundreds of Americans, believing they could get home most 
readily that way, rushed to Havre Monday, August 3, leaving 
all their baggage behind them except what they could carry by 
hand. As far as we in Paris know, they are in Havre still, 
living on the steamships. Those who have first or second cabin 
accommodations have nothing to complain of. We can only 
hope that the nice people who were compelled to take steerage 
quarters do not lack consideration. As for the mail sacks that 
went from Paris to Havre, it is just possible that they reached 
Southampton and were placed on the American liner which 
sailed August 5 and should be sighting Sandy Hook as I write. 
Meanwhile we wonder what day our friends to whom we bade 



14 The Soul of Paris 

"bon voyage" over a week ago as they hustled off to the Hnvre 
trains will get out to sea; whether the France and Chicago will 
sail at all and what will become of them all if the vessels re- 
main in port indefinitely. 

^w^ ^^^ 1^^ 



Paris is surprisingly normal in aspect to-day. Yesterday the 
police authorities permitted the cafes to put the little tables and 
chairs on the sidewalks in front of their establishments. They 
may remain there till eight in the evening. The subways which 
had been stopping at half-past seven in the evening now run till 
nine o'clock. The wives and daughters of the gatemen gone to 
the front have taken their places. The autobuses have not re- 
turned, but soon, we are told, the Government will let us have 
them back from the front and we shall be less isolated from our 
friends in distant quarters of the city. However, vgry few 
shops are open except grocery and provision shops, which are 
run by boys, women and elderly men. One by one the big 
hotels are being transformed into hospitals. Monsieur Alfred 
Roussel, a splendid type of the philanthropic Frenchman, who 
has devoted thirty years of his life to hospital organizations and 
who is an important factor in the activities of the Red Cross, 
took me through the Hotel Meurice this morning and showed 
me what he had done with that establishment in the short space 
of three days. 

"Two days more," said he, "and it will be complete as any 
hospital need be." 

The hotel had been almost stripped bare — at least not a bit of 
carpet or unnecessary furniture remains. It has been put in san- 
itary condition from top to bottom. One hundred beds, two or 
three to a room, are already waiting sick soldiers with a corps 



The Soul of Paris 15 

of doctors, pharmacists, nurses, orderlies and all the other neces- 
sary attendants prepared for action. This is only an example of 
what is going on all over Paris. The Government, by the way, 
emphasizes the announcement that the wounded will not be 
brought to Paris — only the sick. 

It is safe to say that there is not an idle hand to-day among 
the women of France. The shop girls in such stores, big or 
little, as remain open employ their spare time making bandages 
for the Red Cross, while social leaders vie with the wives and 
daughters of the middle classes in their efforts to be useful at 
Red Cross headquarters. 

a/57 a^Sf J& 

I tried to describe in my former letter the spirit of calm reso- 
lution with which the French people of every grade of social 
life faced the crisis. To-day it seems calmer than ever. 
Rumors come to Paris of excitement in Berlin during the open- 
ing days of the war. Whether these rumors are true or not we 
in Paris have no means of knowing, as the only news we get 
about the war are three daily communications to the press of 
the Minister of War. So far we have not had the least unusual 
excitement. To-day there is a feeling of anxiety in the air. 
Very little news has been given out for twenty-four hours. We 
are told that the French troops "are in contact with the enemy 
all along the line." We know that something big, something 
very serious, is going on or about to go on, but what it is is 
left to the imagination. 

Just what happened in Upper Alsace we don't quite know, 
nor do we know all the facts about Liege. We know many 
English troops are on the Continent, but where they are or what 
they are doing is a mystery. Credit must be given to the Gov- 



16 The Soul of Paris 

ernment for the care it is taking in preventing the spread of 
news which if known to the enemy might upset all the plans of 
the French — as was the case in 1870. 

You will see, then, in what a state of obscurity we are liv- 
ing in Paris. The thousands of Americans here, however, 
have quite recovered from the semi-panic into which the order 
of mobilization seemed to throw them ten days ago. Those 
who couldn't get away then and who envied those who suc- 
ceeded in reaching Havre or Boulogne or even London (where 
most of them are said to be still marooned) are now congratu- 
lating themselves that they are in Paris rather than any other 
big city of Europe. Heaven knows how the Americans bottled 
up in Germany and Austria are faring! So far all efforts to 
communicate with Carlsbad, for example, where Frank A. 
Munsey and a lot of other well-known Americans are seques- 
trated, have failed. Here Americans are treated with the 
greatest kindness. The hotels and boarding houses still open 
don't press them for their bills — are willing to take so much on 
account and trust them for the balance. 

Matters have so adjusted themselves that Americans with 
letters of credit or travelers' checks (other than those issued by 
German steamship companies!) can be turned into French 
money. Those who are less fortunate in having their fvmds 
exhausted are being looked after by the Protective Committee 
of which Judge Gary, of the Steel Corporation, is the head. 
Some time or other the American warships will arrive with all 
that gold we are told is being sent to aid needy Americans in 
their efforts to get home. But to those who are awaiting it the 
time seems awfully long and the things that are being said about 
our State Departm.ent in Washington are not fit for The Eve- 
ning Sun or any other polite evening paper to print. Your 
readers will hear them all by word of mouth from their friends 
when they reach New York. 



The Soul of Paris 1 7 

However, for those who have enough money to be able to 
Uve economically — you can do it very decently for ten francs 
a day — Paris is a very comfortable place even on the tenth 
day of war. Plenty of everything to eat! Fruit never was 
cheaper. Nice fresh vegetables — I see them passing my hotel 
window loaded on huge two-wheeled carts, dozens and dozens 
of them, every morning about live o'clock going to the Halles, 
the great central market of Paris. And as I turn away I say 
to myself : 

"No; we won't be hungry to-day as long as we can enjoy 
boiled cabbage or stewed carrots!" 

But no more fancy bread! The police stopped that. No 
more of those delicious croissants and crisp rolls that we enjoy 
so much with our early morning coffee. The making of them 
means waste of flour, butter and milk. The only bread to be 
had is just common ordinary bread. Incidentally the number- 
less afternoon tea places are all closed. Butter is somewhat 
scarce because there is shortage of hands to make it; milk is 
plentiful. 

The chief concern of the Government as regards the food 
supply of France seems to be to get the crops harvested. Unem- 
ployed youths and prisoners of war are likely to be sent to the 
country to gather the grain and later the grapes. It is said that 
the grain and grape crops this year should be worth nearly 
two billion dollars! Germany, it is said, has to import two 
million dollars' worth of foodstuffs daily to help feed its popula- 
tion. 

Apropos of the subject of food, it would have surprised 
many Americans who have enjoyed an afternoon's sport at the 
beautiful race course of Auteuil to have driven through the 
almost deserted Bois yesterday afternoon and seen a great herd 
of cattle peacefully grazing on the sward. Later in the evening 
an immense flock of sheep crossed the Place de la Concorde 



18 The Soul of Paris 

and proceeded along the Rue de Rivoli, their destination being 
the Eastern Railroad station, thence to the troops. 

Reports reach Paris that the German soldiers captured com- 
plain of lack of food. If v/hat I'm told by well-informed 
Frenchmen is so, the French commissariat has been admirably 
organized, and special attention has been paid to the army's 
nourishment. The outfitting of the soldiers as they respond to 
the call at the barracks is effected with surprising speed. In 
twenty minutes a man can be stripped of his civilian clothes, 
given a bath and fully equipped to join his regiment for a three 
days' march. At the several barracks so used in Paris four 
hundred men can thus be transformed into soldiers in an hour. 

«^p j& j&' 

An American paper dated July 31 came this morning. It 
has an editorial telling its readers that a European war is im- 
possible; that the millions of Socialists in Europe would refuse 
to take up arms against their brethren of other nations! A 
beautiful dream! Still it is interesting, inasmuch as a copy of 
The Zeitung of Cologne which got to Paris by underground 
transit yesterdaj/^ gives the speech of the Socialist leader, Haase, 
in the Reichstag. It may not have been printed in America, 
so I quote parts of it: 

"It is Imperialism which has put the whole world under 
arms and is driving people against people and pouring a torrent 
of blood over Europe. It is the advocates of Imperialism who 
must bear before the world the full responsibility. We So- 
cialists have fought against this policy of Imperialism, as have 
our brethren in France. Our efforts have failed. Now that 
our country is threatened by invasion, nothing remains but to 
defend our frontiers. But we have a right to think with sor- 



The Soul of Paris 19 

row of the millions of our compatriots who, in spite of them- 
selves, are dragged into the catastrophe!" (Ovation.) 

Thereupon Mr. Haase cast his vote for the war appropria- 
tion. A few weeks ago he was sitting side by side with the 
slain Juares at the Brussels International Social Peace Con- 
gress. Meanwhile half the staff of Juares' newspaper, Hu- 
manite, are at the front shooting down their German brothers! 

As I close this desultory letter for the post — hoping it will 
reach England, with which fairly regular communication has 
been re-established by way of Boulogne, and catch the Amer- 
ican boat from Liverpool on Saturday, August 15 — the eve- 
ning papers are appearing. They contain the official press 
agents' communication. Nothing new in it! Nothing from 
Mulhouse! Nothing from the center of the line! Nothing 
from Belgium! But the Paris public has resigned itself to 
this lack of news. It seems to have entire confidence in the 
good faith of the Government, in the wisdom of its withhold- 
ing information regarding military movements and, above all, 
in the leadership of the Commander-in-Chief, Gen. Joffre, "the 
silent." 

You stop for a petit tasse at the little zinc bar down the 
street where presides the wife in the absence of her fighting 
husband. Like all her sister Frenchwomen she views the 
future bravely. Not a murmur of regret! 

"The big battle is either going on or will soon be on," she 
quietly remarks. 

"Will he be in it?" you ask. 

"How can I know?" she responds. ''If he is he will fight 
like a Frenchman — like every other Frenchman. Yes, mon- 



20 The Soul of Paris 

sieur, it will be a big battle, I'm sure. But you can't make 
an omelet without breaking the eggs!" 

And that homely proverb better than anything else expresses 
the feeling of the women of France who have so cheerfully 
seen husbands, sons, fathers and sweethearts gird on their 
swords or shoulder their muskets and start for the front. 

Late this evening came the news that the English had landed 
on the Continent. It will not be generally known imtil the 
morning's papers announce it. The Parisians received the news 
with what might be described as well-tempered enthusiasm, es- 
pecially as with it came the news that the Germans had asked 
for an armistice at Liege. But there was no excitement, no 
demonstration; only a comfortable feeling of satisfaction. As 
the editor of a big Paris paper said to me half an hour ago : 

"Tout va admirablement" — "Everything is proceeding ad- 
mirably." 

That was all. No boasting! No blustering! Everywhere 
calmness, self-restraint, confidence that everything possible is 
being done in the face of the situation. No one hears anything 
more about party differences, although a few weeks ago the 
Chamber of Deputies was a bear garden, a Donnybrook Fair; 
every little faction ready to jump at the throat of the other. 

The story goes that the German Crown Prince was in Paris 
within the past month incognito and stayed at the Hotel As- 
toria (whose German manager, by the way, is said to have been 
a spy) and that he took back the news to his august pairent 
that France was on the eve of another revolution and now was 
the psychological moment for Germany to act. 

How sadly he and his parent were deceived! In spite of 
the acquittal of Mme. Caillaux for the murder of Gaston Cal- 



The Soul of Paris 21 

mette, editor of The Figaro; in spite of the assassination (by 
a crazy man) of the famous Socialist deputy Juares; in spite 
of all the bitter political battles of recent years, to-day France 
is absolutely one party — the party of the Patrie. Even 
the members of former reigning families, to whom the law for- 
bids the privilege, have begged to be allowed to serve under 
the flag, and it was with evident regret that President Poincare 
was compelled to decline the proffer of their swords. 

^^p <j^ t^s 

Seventy-five per cent, of the Paris newspapers have ceased 
publication. Most of those still being issued have been reduced 
to one sheet; many to a half sheet. No news is published that 
is not first submitted to the War Office. The small sheets are 
due to the fact that the staffs of writers and printers have been 
mobilized and that the price of raw paper has materially ad- 
vanced. In many cases only the "old timers," the office boy 
and the "printers' devil" are left to get out the paper. 

Incidentally I may remark that there is plenty to eat in Paris 
and elsewhere in France. There has been hardly any advance 
in the price of the necessaries of life. The police will close any 
shop that increases prices unreasonably. The supply of pota- 
toes alone is enough to feed Paris for six months. The only 
thing that bothers Americans who have crowded into this city 
is the want of cash. 



22 The Soul of Paris 




III. 



General French's Visit to Paris — Funeral of Pol Plancon — 
Victor Hugo's Home Revisited — Reawakening of Ver- 
sailles — The Stolen Clocks of 1870. 

Paris, Sunday, Aug. 16, 1914. 

WO weeks since the first day of mobilization and 

Paris would seem perfectly normal to any stranger 

happening to arrive to-day. I took a spin around 

the eastern section of this city Sabbath morning 

on my bicycle — a bicycle left by an unfortunate 

German, a hotel messenger who was glad to get 

twenty francs for it and which is very useful, seeing that the 

two-cent buses are still being used by the army. Everything 

looked as usual on a warm summer Sunday morning. 

The churches, perhaps, were better attended than ordinarily. 
Notre Dame, decorated within and without with the tricolor, 
was literally packed. Cardinal Amette was officiating. There 
was comparatively little bustle around the Lyons-Mediterra- 
nean railroad station, while at the Eastern and Northern Rail- 
road station, where the trains carry troops to Belgium and the 
German frontier, things were remarkably quiet. Many of the 
side streets were crowded with the customary pushcarts, and the 
purchase of supplies for the day's luncheon and dinner by the 
housewives of the working classes was proceeding with the same 
seriousness as ever, prices of fruit and vegetables and meat 
suggesting anything but war. 

No one can predict what may happen before this letter 



The Soul of Paris 23 

reaches The Evening Sun office, but I can assure you that at 
this writing on this August Sunday, apart from the absence of 
the auto buses, there is Httle to suggest the fact that within a 
few hundred miles more than a milHon Frenchmen, Belgians 
and Enghsh on one side and an equal number of Germans and 
Austrians on the other are either now or about to be engaged 
in what we are told by the war experts will be the most tre- 
mendous battle the world has ever known. 



3®" 



The eve of this battle was the occasion of a great demon- 
stration in honor of the English Commander-in-Chief, Gen. Sir 
John French. His visit to Paris yesterday was well timed. It 
was Assumption Day and a general holiday. All Paris seemed 
to have turned out to acclaim him. When he arrived at the 
North station shortly after midday the interior was packed, 
while more than 20,000 persons filled the square in front and 
overflov/ed into the adjoining streets. 

I well remember the crowd that greeted Bleriot, the aviator, 
when he returned from England after having flown over the 
Channel. I thought that that was a crowd not to be exceeded 
in enthusiasm. But the greeting of Gen. French surpassed it 
many times. It was with the greatest difficulty that his automo- 
bile could escape. The crowds were ready to pick it up and 
carry it on their shoulders! All along the line to the British 
Embassy there was one continuous "Hip! hip! hooray! Vive 
French! Vive la France! Vive 1' Angleterre ! " 

Two English officers who accompanied Gen. French later in 
the day innocently dismounted from a taxi at the Cafe de Paix. 
Instantly at sight of their khaki uniform the crowd at the cafe 
made a mad rush at them, hugged them and kissed them and 
cheered them. Imagine two big blonde Britishers being sub- 



24 The Soul of Paris 

jected to such an ordeal! They blushed like children. Brave 
as the)'^ may be in face of the enemy, they simply wilted before 
the assault of their French friends. After no little difficulty 
they were extricated from what to them was a most embarrass- 
ing situation by some practical American, bundled into a cab 
and sent off with wild hurrahs. Gen. French's visit has in a 
way been a fortunate incident; it has given the Parisians an 
opportunity of relieving their feelings, of giving expression to 
themselves after the fifteen days of restraint which they have 
imposed upon their emotions. 

\ 

Half past eight in the morning tNo days ago found me out- 
side the little Church of St. Pierre de Chaillot a few blocks 
west of the Champs Elysees. The portal was simply draped in 
black. Entering I found the altar lit and perhaps two dozen 
persons seated. Leaning against a column in the rear I saw 
some one whose figure and face were familiar. There were 
tears in his eyes. Approaching, I realized that it was none 
other than Jean de Reszke. Need I admit it? We embraced. 

"Sad?" he repeated. "Ah, sad indeed! War was no 
sooner declared than my only boy, twenty-four years of age, 
took the first train from our summer home in Deauville to volun- 
teer. He, like myself, is a Russian subject, but as he could 
not go to Russia he would fight with the French and now he 
is a cuirassier. His mother is heartbroken. And now this 
morning we are here at the funeral of this dear old friend and 
comrade." 

As M. De Reszke finished these words the funeral cortege 
arrived and soon, before the altar, lay all that was mortal of 
that splendid artist, never to be forgotten by those who have 
heard him — Pol Plancon. 



The Soul of Paris 25 

The ceremony was simple and brief. I heard the beautiful 
bass voice of a Monsieur Mary sing a Miserere and I thought 
of the delight of the audiences on Sunday nights at the Metro- 
politan Opera House when, responding to their sincere applause, 
Plancon would sing "Les Deux Grenadiers" as no one I have 
ever heard could sing it. Many who read this will recall it. 
Can't you feel again the thrill he gave you when at the close 
he would throw up his arms and the words would come from 
his lips (Oh, what splendid diction was his! ) as from, a clarion: 

''Marchons! Marchons! 
Qu'un sang impure 
Abreuve nos sillons!" 

I recalled also the night of the Metropolitan Opera when 
poor old Castlemary, the French basso, dropped dead at the 
end of the first act of "Martha." Jean de Reszke was his 
close friend, and I was sent to see him after the tragic event. 
"My dear fellow," said M. de Reszke on that occasion, ''Cas- 
tlemary was such an artist that he simply could not die till the 
curtain had fallen." 

And perhaps one might say that Plancon was such a patriot 
that he could not die till he had heard that the French were 
once more in Alsace! 



It was only a peep that I took into Notre Dame this morn- 
ing, I must confess. Nevertheless I didn't quite neglect my re- 
ligious duties. A few minutes later found me in the quiet 
Place des Vosges, as yet an unspoiled bit of older Paris — 
Paris of Catherine de Medici and Henry IV., whose thrifty 
sense inspired him to erect the uniform dwelling houses which 
surrounded the parklet. A house at the southeast corner was 



26 The Soul of J'aris 

my destination, but the big door was closed hard and fast. No 
response to repeated ringing. After ten minutes' waiting I was 
about to wheel off when I saw running toward me a slim, elderly 
man with a kindly face. 

"What can I do for you, monsieur? The musee is closed 
during the war." 

"A mistake, don't you think?" I replied. "If any musee 
in France should be open just now it should be the house of 
Victor Hugo." 

The concierge's eyes brightened — then dampened. 

"Perhaps you are right, monsieur, but those are my orders. 
I'm very sorry I can't show you around." 

"Well, you can do one little thing for me. I remember 
seeing and reading a Golden Text written in Hugo's hand- 
writing and hanging on the wall when I was here some years 
ago — I want to copy it and keep it." 

"I know what you want, monsieur," interrupted the con- 
cierge. ''Come into my room. I can repeat it to you — in 
English!" 

I did, and here it is: 

"/ represent a party that does not exist — the Parly of ReV' 
olutionary Civilization. This party will control the Twen- 
tieth Century. Out of it will grow first the United States of 
Europe and then the United States of the World." 

A Golden Text! A Golden Dream! 

^^7 k>C k^S? 

Have you ever been to Versailles on any day other than 
those Sundays when the "Big Waters" play — days when Pa- 
risians flock there by the thousands? If you have you remem- 
ber its deserted air, its silent streets, its rows of houses with 
windows tightly closed, its walled garden whence hardly a 



The Soul of Paris 27 

sound issues. You should see it these war days! Paris may 
suggest little of what is going on at the front, but Versailles — 
that's another story! As a lyric French journalist put it, "Like 
the Sleeping Beauty whom Prince Charming awakens, Ver- 
sailles has shaken off her sleep at the sound of the hymns of 
war." Everywhere soldiers, everywhere uniforms, everywhere 
cavaliers mounted on horses that seem to sniff the battle from 
afar. Beneath the tall trees of the Boulevard de la Reine, 
along the Avenue de Saint Cloud to the Trianon, soldiers and 
horses, nothing but soldiers and horses! And what magnifi- 
cent animals one sees there — thick necked Norman horses, 
sturdy Percherons for the artillery service especially winning 
your admiration, all ready for the frontier. 

The military staff occupies the Hotel Vatel. Every private 
citizen has his quota of soldiers billeted to him. The villas 
with gardens are turned over to the officers. Alongside of the 
Trianon a captain of artillery is exercising his men. Here and 
there Red Cross women come and go. In the center of all 
stands the great chateau, its windows all closed, awaiting the 
cry of "Victory!" to be reopened. Meanwhile apart in the 
park around the huge basins of the famous fountains children 
romp or throw pebbles into the water or sail their tiny toy 
boats, little knowing the fate that to-day or to-morrow may be- 
fall their fathers or big brothers. 

t^v JS ^^1 

A few days ago I said goodby to Robert Fayou, one of 
three brothers of Mademoiselle Jaqueline of New York. His 
younger brother, Maurice, had already gone to the front; his 
other brother, Henri, will start in a few days. 

"I'm an automobile expert," said Robert, "and I have been 
put in charge of forty men and twenty ammunition trucks. I 



28 The Soul of Paris 

shall in a day or two make my first trip to the frontier. Inci- 
dentally I'll tell you that I have one special ambition." 

"And what may that be?" I asked, as I saw a twinkle in 
his eye. 

"I want to bring those twenty trucks back to Paris some 
time, loaded with all the French clocks that the Germans stole 
from us in the war of 1870." 

It still rankles in the Parisians' breasts — that feeling en- 
gendered by the wholesale theft of clocks. They feel here 
very much as my former fellow townsmen of Baltimore used to 
feel toward Ben Butler, who with his men was always accused 
by Baltimoreans of having stolen all the silver spoons they 
could lay their hands on in the Maryland metropolis. 

jST ^^T ^5^ 

If a soldier loses his life his family is informed of the fact 
by the receipt of the medal or plaque bearing his name, ad- 
dress and regiment which he wears clasped on his wrist after 
joining the command and the brief announcement, "Dead on 
the field of honor." This is spoken of as "receiving the medal." 
Two days ago a woman of lowly means who lives near a friend 
of mine and whose husband had gone to the front, leaving her 
with five children, all under twelve years of age, gave birth to 
twins. 

fhat evening she ''received the medal." 

"War is Hell!" said General Sherman. He knew! 



The Soul of Paris 



29 



IV. 



Waiting for a Twentieth Century Edition of Waterloo — How 
Maurice Renaud Went to the Front — The Theatre Situa- 
tion — The End of Absinthe in France. 




Paris, Wednesday, August 19. 1914. 

ERE we are waiting — still waiting for the big battle 
that is promised up near Waterloo. Less and less 
news is dealt out at the War Department, yet the 
Parisian population accepts the situation without 
complaint. No English newspapers reach us, but 
we are told that the censorship of the press as re- 
gards military matters is quite as severe as in France. An 
Italian paper arrives occasionally. 

I found a copy of The Secolo of Milan to-day, five days 
old. If its account of the fighting at Muelhausen is authentic 
it was a bloody affair. The correspondent writing from Basle 
estimated the losses on both sides in killed and wounded at 
close on ten thousand men. And that, judging from the report 
of Generalissimo Joffre — in his first despatch of the war issued 
yesterday — is merely a beginning of the slaughter we may ex- 
pect from now on. 

This despatch, by the way, is very characteristic. As I said, 
it is the first official utterance of the head of the French army. 
Clear, simple, concise, it suggests that other silent man of war. 
Grant. His temperate but positive tone, closing, "Generally 
speaking during the past few days we have scored important 
successes which do honor to our troops, whose ardor is incom- 



30 The Soul of Paris 

parable, and to the officers who lead them to batde," has made 
a deep impression on the pubHc mind. The confidence felt in 
Gen. Joffre is universal. 

It is interesting to recall that only last year, while addressing 
an assembly of graduates of the Ecole Polytechnique, he out- 
lined the principles which he is putting into practice to-day: 

"To be ready to-day," said he on that occasion, "we must 
have beforehand directed with method, with tenacity, all the 
resources of the country toward one single object — victory! 
We must have everything organized, everything foreseen. We 
must have all the material, armament, munitions, tools of war, 
commissary supplies, of which the army may have need, con- 
stantly complete and in the very best condition." 

Then he added: "Once hostilities have commenced no im- 
provisation can have any value. What is missing then is miss- 
ing once and for all, and the smallest deficiency or defect may 
cause a disaster." 

Such are the principles which inspire the man to whom the 
French nation looks to lead it to victory; the man whose motto 
is: "Say what you want to say — say it and then be silent!" 

A tall, handsome man, hair snow white, face clean shaven, 
age about fifty-five years, carefully but simply dressed, walked 
into the antechamber of General Michel, Military Governor 
of Paris, a few days ago. Handing his card to the orderly at 
the door he asked that it be sent in to the General. A few 
minutes later a young officer appeared. 

"Is this Monsieur Renaud?" 

it IS. 

"Monsieur Maurice Renaud of the Opera?" 
"The same." 



The Soul of Paris 31 

''Delighted to meet you? You wish to see the General? 
Come in at once." 

And Maurice Renaud was soon in the presence of the mili- 
tary head of the City of Light. 

"What can I do for you. Monsieur Renaud?" asked the 
General. 

"I wish to go to the front," was the great baritone's calm 
response. 

There was a moment of silence. Then Gen. Michel took 
Monsieur Renaud by both hands, replying: 

"My friend, I congratulate you. May you do yourself and 
your country honor." 

Next day Maurice Renaud started at 5 a. m. for Verdun 
in the imiform of a private soldier — Renaud, the elegant, the 
debonair. One of the last to shake hands with him at the sta- 
tion was his faithful acolyte, Paolo Ananian, the Armenian 
basso of the Metropolitan Opera. Verdun is at the frontier. 
Renaud is likely to be in the thick of the fighting. He didn't 
have to go, but he v/anted to atone for a foolish youthful es- 
capade which caused him to evade part of his military service 
many years ago. And if you knew Renaud as I do, and knew 
how he loved the good things of life, not to mention his affec- 
tion for his family, you would join with me, removing your hat, 
in exclaiming: 

"Bravo, Maurice! You are a brave man and an honor to 
your Art! May you win even more laurels on the battlefield 
than you have won on the stage, to which you have been an 
honor!" 

Other but younger French operatic artists known in New 
York are also on the firing line, among them M. Muratore, 
tenor, husband of Lina Cavalieri, Campagnola, Vanni Mar- 
coux, Clement and Leon Rothier, the French basso of the 
Metropolitan. 



32 The Soul of Paris 

Although in London and Brussels the theatres are reported 
to be going on as usual, here in Paris all are closed except a 
few moving picture houses. The sentiment, however, is grow- 
ing that the public should have some diversion. The Parisian 
women are occupied during the day with their Red Cross work, 
but in the evening as the cafes close at eight o'clock and the 
eating places at nine thirty o'clock there is little or nothing to 
do but stroll the boulevards for an hour and then retire to one's 
apartment. No one is doing much entertaining these days, you 
may be assured; but the custom seems to be spreading of friends 
holding ''pound parties" — like those that they used to get up 
for the clergymen in a country town in America — each guest 
bringing something nice to eat to share with all the others. This 
isn't a bad form of diversion, but the Parisian is a theatregoer 
and that form of amusement seems more or less necessary to 
his or — especially — her enjoyment of life. 

A movement is now under way to organize some sort of 
theatrical season during which decently amusing or patriotically 
stimulating plays may be revived or produced. If pKJSsible 
some good concerts may be organized, for up to the present 
nobody makes any music in Paris. I have a piano in my room 
but fear even to play "The Marseillaise" on it. A young 
music student I know shuts all the windows, draws heavy cur- 
tains and then, during the noisiest part of the day, practises her 
scales and exercises with a soft pedal. The newspapers are 
cautiously suggesting that this is not the best sort of conduct 
for the public health of mind. M. Gheusi of the Opera Co- 
mique told me that he thinks he may be able to organize a 
season of two or three performances a week at his house, the 
profits to be turned over to the Red Cross or some other benevo- 
lent funds. As the grand opera was in a crisis when the war 
broke out, any move on the part of the new director, M. 
Jacques Rouche, would seem impossible. However, before very 



The Soul of Paris 33 

long it would seem that there may be some signs of life in the 
Parisian theatrical world. 

•^tr '^Rr "^cr 

1^) m^ JS 

In line with the suggestion that public amusements is a rea- 
sonable necessity in such times comes the suggestion by Figaro 
that it is the duty of Parisiennes, who can afford it, to order 
new hats and gowns as usual so that the Rue de la Paix and 
its "big and little hands" who have, in their way, contributed 
so much to the name and fame of France may not be allowed 
to suffer for want of work. Many of tliese "big and little 
hands," manj'' of the bright, happy-faced "midinettes," the 
''Mimi Pinsons" whom we have been accustomed to see at noon 
time hurrying to the cook shops or the little "one-franc-fifteen 
dejeuner" restaurants, laughing and chatting, don't know where 
their next sou is com.ing from, these terrible days. Many of 
them have seen fathers, brothers or sweethearts leave for the 
war and are nov/ the main support of their mothers or smaller 
brothers and sisters. 

So it is to be hoped that Figaro's sage suggestion may beajr 
fruit and that day by day at noon and seven o'clock we shall 
see more and more of our little friends the "midinettes" who 
are so peculiar and picturesque a feature of Parisian life. 

^w js Js 

Out of evil good may come. The war has caused the pre- 
fects of Police of Paris and many other cities in France to for- 
bid absolutely the sale of absinthe. This action has been so 
heartily indorsed by the press and intelligent public that it is 
hoped by every friend of France that the prohibition will be 
permanent. Fact is that the new generation with its devotion 



34 The Soul of Paris 

to sport is cultivating habits of temperance that verge on total 
abstinence. Indeed in many cases it is considered "chic" to 
drink nothing but mineral water. 

Although "officially" the hospitals and improvised hospitals 
— "ambulances" they call the latter — in Paris are reserved for 
"sick" soldiers, it is an open secret that many thousands of 
wounded, both German and French, are being treated in and 
near Paris. Apropos of this fact it is interesting to note the 
results recently published of the work of the medical forces in 
the Greek army organized by a Frenchman, Dr. Arnaud. 
During the war v/ith Turkey the Greeks had 1 5,969 wounded, 
of whom only 271 died- — 1 . 1 9 per cent. In the second Greek 
war the wounded were 24,139, of whom 350 died — 1.45 
per cent. The average percentage therefore was only 1.32, 
which is declared to be "tlie smallest mortality ever recorded 
as the result of wounds in warfare." The French surgeons 
hope to obtain equally satisfactory results during the present 
war. 

Has any one told the story of the "crazy train?" 
A few days after the beginning of the war — so the story 
goes — seven hundred Uhlans were made prisoners in the fol- 
lowing manner: The Alsatian engineer was taking them to the 
frontier. When he got near the station, which was a short 
distance from the frontier, he saw that the "siding" switch was 
not open. So instead of slowing up he put on full steam and 
never stopped till he had reached the first station on the French 
side of the line! Then he jumped off the locomotive and 
shouted: 



The Soul of Paris 35 

"Here we are! You can make me prisoner now! I'm in 
my own country! Vive la France!" 

The French soldiers made a quick job of the business. They 
took as prisoners Uhlans, horses, equipment and the train into 
the bargain! The provincial paper which tells the story says 
that the Uhlans didn't seem to feel so very badly when they 
found they were only prisoners, as they were all very hungry 
and glad to get something to eat. 

And here are two good French aviator stories: 
One aviator, short of essence, had to land in the enemy's 
territory. He was refitting his reservoir when he saw a German 
patrol. He continued his work so quietly that the Germans 
stopped short about six hundred feet without firing, fearing 
that some trap had been set for them. The reservoir filled, our 
aviator started the engine and flew off on his way. Then it 
was the Germans realized they had been fooled and began 
firing. Too late! The aviator and his machine were out of 
reach and recrossed the frontier safe and sound. 

Here is the other, said to be well vouched for. Capt. X., 
a cavalry officer and military aviator, returning from a long 
reconnoissance found the motor out of order when fifteen miles 
across the frontier. Descending he saw that it could not be 
repaired. Just then appeared galloping toward him a lieu- 
tenant of Uhlans, followed by his men. In a flash he broke 
the tube of his essence reservoir and stood erect, motionless, 
before his apparatus. When the German officer reached him 
Capt. X. smashed his skull with a blow of his pistol, set fire 
to the aeroplane soaked with essence, jumped on the German 
lieutenant's horse and dashed off at a gallop, vainly pursued 
by the Uhlans, whose horses were not in the same class as that 
of their officer. 



36 The Soul of Paris 



A 



V. 



Enthusiasm of Foreign Volunteers — A Polish Jeiv from NeTi> 
York Offers Himself — Reaivakened Popular Interest in 
Napoleons Tomb — Sudden Change of Sentiment. 

Paris, Monday, Aug. 24, 1914. 

LL we know is that it is going on — the long awaited 
big battle in Belgium. Doubtless for good and 
sufficient reasons the government "communiques" 
keep us in entire ignorance as to details. Yester- 
day, however, the city was swept by a wave of 
pessimism. Perhaps that word is too strong; let 
me say depression. The news of the entry of the Germans 
into Brussels and the levy of a war contribution upon that city 
and Liege of fifty million dollars was not very cheering. There 
was a feeling, too, that something else had not gone as it 
should. One or two papers hinted that there had been re- 
verses in Lorraine. 

The evening papers revealed the painful fact that in Lor- 
raine a regiment of troops from the south of France had dis- 
graced itself by precipitous retreat before the enemy. That 
happened three days ago. Doubtless by this time they have 
been severely punished by being sent right to the front. How- 
ever, the afternoon papers offset this by giving large prominence 
to the news of the Russian advance, the destruction of another 
Zeppelin and the prompt offer of England and France of a 
loan of one hundred million dollars to brave little Belgium. 
So that in the evening there was a revival of spirits, and the 



The Soul of Paris 37 

crowds that promenaded the boulevards and Champs Elysees 
until eleven o'clock were visibly more normal than earlier in the 
day. Remarkable is the effect upon the individual mind v/hen 
the public mind is centered on one subject. In spite of your- 
self, in such times as these your m.ind becomes part and parcel 
of the collective mind; and I cite the foregoing facts chiefly to 
give you an idea of the emotional life that each and all of us, 
French and foreigners, are living in these days of tension in 
Paris. 

Saturday I wheeled over to the Invalides. If you have ever 
seen the vast esplanade reaching out to the Seine and the beau- 
tiful Alexander Bridge, beyond which stand the Grand and 
Petit Palais, you will remember what a com.paratively tranquil 
spot it usually is. You should see it now. Automobiles of 
every description are lined up at one end for examination in 
case of requisition. The other end is crov/ded with groups of 
foreigners offering their services as volunteers. Nearly fifty 
thousand of such have already asked to go to the front. Al- 
most every nationality — Germans and Austrians excepted — is 
represented. Each group gathers around the flag of its nation, 
beside which are found two or three leaders. I noticed 'one 
flag I had never seen before — a beautiful flag of magenta, with 
silver fringe, and bearing as a device a crowned silver eagle. 
Inquiry revealed that it was the Polish flag. I noticed many 
Jewish faces am.ong the young men who had rallied to it. 

"Where are you from?" I asked one in French. 

He saw my little American ribbon on my coat and replied: 

"Talk to me in English. I only arrived from New York 
a few weeks ago." 

"And you are a Pole?" 



38 The Soul of Paris 

"Yes, I am a Polish Jew," he answered. "And there are 
thousands of us who want to fight for France because we will 
riien be fighting for a free Poland. I've heard it said that 
Jews don't want to fight. But, sir, they will fight when they 
feel they have a just cause to fight for." 

"And the Czar and Jewish freedom in Greater Russia — 
how about that?" 

"Well, that would be the greatest move the Czar could 
make. Let him grant that, and he will have no more loyal 
subjects than the Russian Jews. But just now we are thinking 
of what a free Poland may mean. If we get that we'll take 
a chance on the rest." 

Just as I was leaving this young man a venerable, white- 
haired Frenchman who overheard the conversation addressed me 
in English. 

"Isn't it splendid," he exclaimed. "How I wish I were 
young enough to go. Would j^ou believe it, I joined the Amer- 
ican Confederate army when I was nineteen and fought under 
Gen. Breckinridge! And how well I remember those four 
years! That was real fighting, too. I came here to see the 
American volunteers." 

But the American volunteers were organizing elsewhere. 
Just then a cheer arose from the crowd around the Italian col- 
ors. A line was being formed which, headed by the Italian 
and French standards, proceeded about five hundred strong into 
the grounds and then the Court of the Invalides, there to be 
examined by the medical corps. The esplanade rang with 
cheers, and then everybody joined in the ''Marseillaise." Of 
interest is the fact that fifty per cent, of the Russians are 
rejected by the doctors; thirty-two per cent, of the Poles, eleven 
per cent, of the Italians and four per cent, of the English. So 
far no American who has offered his services has been turned 



The Soul of Paris 39 

down. The latter, I understand, who number about one hun- 
dred and fifty, will be sent to Rouen. 

I didn't leave the neighborhood without paying a visit to 
Napoleon's tomb, th^ first in many years. I never saw such a 
crowd there before; and it was altogether a French crowd. 
What chiefly attracted them was the first German flag captured 
in Alsace. It was displayed from the organ loft of the chapel 
behind the tomb. Beneath it, gazing upward, stood men, 
women and children in silence, as though it were a sanctified 
relic. How bright and new it looked when compared with the 
scores of Napoleonic trophies of the kind that elsewhere deco- 
rated the chapel, some of them almost in rags, all of them faded 
and century old; a collection to which almost every nation in 
Europe had unwillingly contributed. Useless to attempt to de- 
scribe one's feelings at such a time in such a place. And I'm 
not ashamed to say the tears came to my eyes as I shook hands 
with the veteran who is the special guardian of the newly ac- 
quired trophy — an old warrier who had seen service in the 
Crimean War. 

Americans who know the Grand Palais only as the home 
of art would be surprised to see it now. It has been trans- 
formed into a gigantic barracks, and at present is occupied by 
two thousand marine fusiliers. 

No doubt you know that Monsieur Caillaux has been ap- 
pointed Paymaster-General of the army. The newspapers gen- 
erally have not given any great prominence to the fact, and I 
find my French friends have no desire to discuss the appoint- 



40 The Soul of Paris 

ment. Needless to say, it hasn't left a very good taste in the 
public mouth. The Figaro disposed of it in a manner that is 
worth recording. At the head of its column of "Echoes" yes- 
terday was this brief paragraph: 

"A nomination as officer on the services of the General Staff 
has recently been made w^hich has awakened among our friends 
the most lively indignation. We didn't v/ish to speak of it. 
We shall not speak of it. We realize that NOTHING in the 
present hour should distract the soul of France from the one 
and only Thought, the one and only Object. And we would 
not now have referred to the nomination were it not to thank 
our friends and beg them to believe, once for all, that to be 
silent is not to forget." 



The Soul of Paris 




VI. 



Paris Bears Up Under Bad News — American Volunteers Off 
for Their Depot — Effect on the Public Mind of "Kitch- 
ener Tonic" — The Ministry Changed and Strengthened. 

Paris, Thursday, Aug. 27, 1914. 

HEN I wrote you last Monday afternoon I think I 
told you — in these emotional days it is impossible 
to remember what one v/rote or said three or four 
days before — that we knew something was going 
on in Belgium. By nightfall while I was strolling 
with the crowd in the cooi of the Champs Elysees 
I met Judge Alfred Seligsberg, attorney for the Metropolitan 
Opera Company of New York. We compared notes and 
agreed that the emotional barometer was mounting. 

"I have just learned from a friend of a French officer," said 
Judge Seligsberg, "that the Allies have successfully encircled 
the Germans and that things are going favorably for the French 
and English." Evidently this was the report circulating and it 
explained the improvement in popular sentiment. 

Tuesday morning brought a rude awakening. The Govern- 
ment was unusually explicit in its account of the failure of the 
Allies to defeat the Germans. What a fall in the emotional 
barometer! I don't know when I have felt such a day of de- 
pression. There were tears in the eyes of the woman In the 
little tobacco shop where I buy my two-cent "war cigars." The 
usually cheery smile on the plump face of the "patronne" of 
the little zinc bar where I stop to get a four-cent cup of coffee 



42 The Soul of Paris 

had disappeared as if forever. The little old woman and her 
daughter who keep the kiosk in the boulevard near the Grand 
Cafe had lost their Gallic garrulity and handed me my papers 
with hardly a word. So it was all along in the shops, on ithe 
streets — everywhere gloomy faces, taciturnity, unwillingness to 
discuss the situation. And this continued throughout the day. 
So that at nighl when you retired you felt a nervous exhaustion 
that could be attributed to nothing else than the sympathetic 
response for which you were continually called upon by the 
sadness depicted on the face of every Parisian you encountered. 

^^ ^^ ^^? 

It was Tuesday afternoon, by the way, that the hundred or 
more American volunteers left for Rouen. They were just en- 
tering the St. Lazare Station as I wheeled up. The Stars and 
Stripes were waving beside the Gallic tricolor and the yard in 
front of the station was crowded with Americans who had 
come to bid them "Godspeed." Women showered them with 
flowers and men shook them by the hands. They were a well 
set-up lot of fellows and ought to be able to give a good ac- 
count of themselves. Few of them were known to me, but just 
at the last moment a blond, athletic chap, with rosy cheeks and 
bright blue eyes, hailed me: 

"Hello, old man! Don't you know me?" 

"Surely I do," said I, "but for the moment your name" 

"Why, I'm Casey! You've handled my 'copy' many a 
time," said he. 

And of course I remembered. "And you're going to the 
front?" I said. 

"Certainly," he replied. "I've been at work here for sev- 
eral years. I've a lot of awfully nice French friends. They've 



The Soul of Paris 43 

all gone — I can't stay behind. So off I'm going! Goodby! 
Remember me to all the boys you know that I know" 

And off went Casey! I don't know where he will be when 
this letter reaches New York. But Casey never "welched" 
on an "assignment." I'm sure he'll "cover" this one. 

Burn a candle for Casey ! 

Presto! Change! Wednesday morning! What's all this? 
I stroll down the Rue des Capucines from my hotel to the 
Boulevard. I make my usual rounds. The "little people" who 
were so much "in the dumps" the day before have all changed 
their faces! The emotional barometer has taken a jump. The 
cochers snap their whips with more of an air. Pedestrians move 
with a livelier step. I hear a joke cracked from time to time 
and wherefore. I open my papers and find displayed con- 
woman and her little girl greet me cheerily. 

"Ca va mieux, monsieur!" — "Things are going better, sir!" 
she says. 

"Evidently!" I reply, and I begin to investigate the why 
and I hear some one laugh every now and then. My paper 
spicuously Gen. Kitchener's clear, concise, confident speech in 
the British House of Lords. "Kitchener tonic" had done the 
business! It was the text of dozens of French editorials and 
the effect was marvellous. It v/as so potent that even the influx 
of refugees from Belgium, pouring in at the North Railroad 
Station all day long by the hundreds — women old and young, 
children in their teens and at the breast, old men and little boys, 
all with tales of flaming farmhouses and barbarous outrages — 
things almost unbelievable — failed to shake the spiril of con- 
fidence which the Kitchener declaration had restored. 



44 The Soul of Paris 

This feeling of confidence in the final result is still dominant 
to-day. The Government is keeping us in the dark as to the 
progress of events in Belgium. We have no idea what is hap- 
pening. Judge for yourself how we must feel, knowing that 
within a hundred miles of us is in progress such a battle as the 
world has never before known, when all the Government would 
tell us that afternoon was this: 

"Yesterday's events in the region of the north have in no de- 
gree compromised or modified the disposition m.ade in view of 
the ulterior development of the operations." 

But Paris accepts this enigmatic announcement with resig- 
nation, especially as it was preceded by the announcement of 
the reorganization of the Ministry into what has been hailed as 
a "National Ministry," in which all party lines are lost. The 
inclusion of two Socialist leaders, Jules Guesde and Marcel 
Sembat, is of the greatest importance. Time and again Guesde 
has maintained that no Socialist could consistently become a 
member of a bourgeois Ministry. He said to-day that the only 
thing that justified his acceptance of the office is that he enters 
it not to govern, but to fight. "Were I younger," said he, "I 
would take a gun, for it is the cause of humanity itself that we 
are defending!" Notable is the fact that Messimy is replaced 
as Minister of War by Miiierand who, did so much a year or 
more ago to revitalize the French army. Notable also is the 
replacem.ent of General Michel, Military Governor of Paris, 
by General Gallieni — much to the comfort of the population. 



The mild agitation in favor of reopening a limited number 
of theatres in Paris has died out. Paris evidently is not seek- 



The Soul of Paris 45 



ing amusement. Nearly every person has a dear one either at 
the front or on the way there. 

Though theatrical amusements are lacking, there is no short- 
age of good food, well cooked, in Paris. The markets gen- 
erally are normal. Fruit and vegetables never Vv^ere cheaper 
in Paris. Out at the abattoir yesterday I saw acres of catde, 
but I understand that the wholesale price of veal has gone up 
near ten cents a pound since mobilization began. This was due 
in large measure to transportation difficulties. The price is 
coming down again. 

It is the horse meat market that is suffering most. Usually 
Paris slaughters about two hundred horses a day. Now it is 
killing barely a hundred, the number decreasing steadily. Horse 
meat will soon be a luxury! You see so many horses have 
been taken by the Government just as harvest time was coming 
on, that the farm.ers find it better to keep their "old nags" and 
hire them to neighbors when not using them themselves, than 
sell them to the butchers. So meanwhile we shall have to worry 
along with an ordinary filet de boeuf ! 



46 The Soul of Paris 



VII. 



German Aeroplanes Drop Bombs on Paris — The Populations 
Nerves a Bit Shaken — Alarming Reports About the 
Proximity of the Enem^ — Ambassador Herrick a Popular 
Hero — Our Diplomatic Service. 

Paris. Wednesday Afternoon, Sept. 2. 1914. 

HAT days we are passing through ! Days that try 
the nerves, that test one's sangfroid! Just a month 
ago the mobilization began. I think I told you 
how suddenly the aspect of Paris changed on that 
momentous occasion, told you of the hurry and 
bustle in the streets, the rush for horse cabs and 
auto taxis, heightened by the mysterious disappearance of the 
thousands of autobuses so familiar to visitors; the rush for the 
railroad stations and the immense crowds there gathered to bid 
goodby to the soldiers hurrying off to join their regiments; the 
cheery — I may also say gay — spirit with which the men de- 
parted singing, hurrahing, every one eager for the fray. 

In some respects the past few days have not been unlike 
that opening day. The activity at the railroad stations is quite 
as great. Again there is an exodus. But although the crowd 
that is rushing to buy tickets for any and every departing train 
includes the territorial reserves — the men from thirty-eight to 
forty-eight years of age — and the youngsters of twenty who 
otherwise would not have been called until next month — a very 
large proportion consists of women and children — British and 
Americans seeking their native countries and Parisiennes whose 




The Soul of Paris 47 

husbands, fathers, sons or other male relatives have left them 
for the front and who are going to join friends or relatives in 
the provinces. 

Paris, I must confess — and Paris just now is principally 
feminine in its population — has had a bit of a scare. Paris, 
which usually^ has so many varied interests to divert its mind, 
is obsessed by one thought — war and its fortunes. The official 
communications of late have been so reticent, so vague, that all 
sorts of wild reports have been afloat to disturb the public 
equanimity. Last Sunday the emotional barometer was very 
low. To cap the climax a German aeroplane made its ap- 
pearance. Every one was on the street to see it; many sup- 
posed it was a French machine. But when three bombs were 
dropped with the result that a little baker's wife was killed and 
five .persons more or less seriously wounded, the population re- 
alized its peril from such agencies of the enemy and the only 
thing that prevented a possible attack of popular hysteria was 
the unfounded, though greedily received, report that the French 
had won a smashing victory in the north. 

However, Paris managed to get a fairly good sleep that 
night, for every one turned in early. But nevertheless the next 
day was truly a "blue Monday." The reported big victory 
was a myth, a cruel deception, so that as one moved about one 
felt that the emotional tension was close to the breaking point. 
The rush for the trains was greater than ever. The Americans 
who had been booked for three boats sailing this week from 
Havre — the Flandre, the Touraine and the France — began to 
lose their heads. Few seemed willing to wait for the regular 



48 The Soul of Paris 

"boat trains"; they were prepared to take any kind of a train 
— if they couldn't afford to pay from $100 to $200 to go by 
auto to Havre. Those that planned going to England found 
an unwillingness on the part of the British Consul to grant any 
more permits to foreigners to, enter England. One lady whom 
I met in Boyd Neel's was willing to pay any money to get to 
Havre at once. 

"I know what I'm talking about," said she, with the greatest 

emphasis. "I have it from Dr. , naming one of the 

most eminent physicians of Paris, ''that the Government is go- 
ing to be transferrd to Bordeaux on Wednesday. The Ger- 
mans are almost at our gates." 

"Don't you think, my dear roadame," said I, "that your 
mental condition is largely due to the little scare that the aero - 
planes gave you yesterday, and the aviator's billet doux to Pa- 
risians telling them that there was nothing left them to do but 
surrender?" 

"Not at all," she replied warmly. "Not at all! Dr. 

knows President Poincare and War Minister Millerand, and 
he wouldn't deceive me." Then she asked: "You're not go- 
ing to delay, are you?" 

"Well," I replied, "this is Monday. My wife is booked 
on the Touraine for Thursday. The boat train starts at 9.33 
a. m. I fully expect to put her on that train and send her 
safely out of Paris to Havre, after which I shall remain three 
or. four days before leaving for Italy, where business calls me — 
though I'd rather stay here." 

"Well," was the answer, "I suppose you know your own 
business!" 

I'm quite sure that the good lady did not give me credit for 
ordinary human intelligence. I suppose she got her auto and 
is now in Havre enjoying much peace of mind and much more 



The Soul of Paris 49 

discomfort of body waiting , a week for the departure of her 
steamer. 

^^ ^^r ^^r 

It is now four o'clock Wednesday afternoon, and the Gov- 
ernment is still doing business in Paris at, the same old stand! 



Don't imagine that I belittle the aeroplane bomb dropping. 
True, it was said that a police inspector in making his report 
Sunday afternoon simply stated that "some person or persons 
unknown had dropped from an aeroplane as yet unidentified 
some rubbish, thereby defiling the public highways .contrary to 
the ordinances of the Municipal Council!" If not true, never- 
theless, ben trovaio, for every Parisian read it, and it is wonder- 
ful the inspiriting effect on the Gallic mind of a bon mot in the 
most tragic moment. 

So when late Monday afternoon another — or the same — 
celestial visitor was spied it really caused more curiosity than 
excitement. Two bombs were dropped — one near the Bank of 
France. No one was hurt ; in fact only one exploded. 

''The Germans expect to touch off the other when they get 
to Paris," laughed a gamin who told me about it. 

Paris soon gets used to things! Didn't the Germans have 
a habit of plumping a shell on Paris from Mont Valerian every 
day at noon during the siege of '71, so regularly that every 
Parisian got the habit of setting his clock or watch by it? 
They are not so punctual with their aeroplane visits. Perhaps 
the idea is to keep Paris guessing and if possible create a gen- 
eral panic. 



50 The Soul of Paris 

This general panic has not yet put in an appearance. The 
desire to send their women folk to places of absolute safety is 
only reasonable on the part of the men who are off fighting. 
Late yesterday afternoon, when I was spending four hours at 
the St. Lazare station getting a few trunks "checked," I heard 
what sounded like a very loud auto tire explosion. I ran into 
the crowded courtyard and learned that there had been a third 
aeroplane visitation. Three more bombs had been dropped. 
One of them fell just alongside the big department shop "Prin- 
temps," which every American woman who has been in Paris 
knows. Four persons were injured and one even killed — a 
woman, an old newspaper dealer from whom I had often bought 
a morning paper on my way to the^St. Lazare station to bid 
departing friends au revoir. 

It was after learning who had been the victim of yesterday's 
bomb dropping that I cabled a brief inquiry to The Evening 
Sun asking in very plain but emphatic language what the Amer- 
ican Government intended doing about such an evident viola- 
tion of the Hague Convention. Thousands of American women 
and children are still here wanting to get away, but as yet un- 
able. Could any protest on our part against this mode of war- 
fare be too strong? Is the Hague Convention another "chif- 
fon" — another "shred of paper"? 

"Still," said the cheerful Optimist, "you mustn't forget that 
there are over two million one hundred thousand people in 
Paris. It is therefore at least a 'two million to one shot' that 
you or I will be hit by a German aeroplane bomb. And don't 
you run more risk in the streets of New York when any mo- 
ment a brick may fall off the top of a twenty-story building and 
crack you on the head? Cheer up, old fellow! The worst is 
a long way off!" 



The Soul of Paris 51 

And then they went off to have a "high ball" at Tod Sloan's 
bar. They had several! And later on I thought I saw them 
coming out of Henry's. Perhaps I was mistaken! 

''Hf "^H" *Bfr 

JS> m^) •AS' 

Talking about "high balls" — I mean to say "bombs," let 
me give you a few statistics. When on January 5 , 1871, the 
Germans from Meudon, Chatillon and other points in which 
they had established their batteries began to shell Paris they 
launched no less than two hundred or three hundred projec- 
tiles each night. It is said that even buildings flying the Red 
Cross flag were not spared — but that I hesitate to believe. It 
is a fact, however, that the first victims of the bombardment 
were several young boys in the dormitory of the St. Nicholas 
Boarding School, kept by the Christian Brothers, 

Horrible as was that war — just as the killing of the baker's 
wife on Sunday and of my old woman newsdealer friend yes- 
terday were horrible — Paris soon got used to the Prussian 
abuses. They thought it was a joke that it took three thousand 
five hundred projectiles from January 5 to January 28 to kill 
or injure (in many cases very slightly) only four hundred per- 
sons. The population than was one million eight hundred 
thousand. 

^IB" "^B* ^5B* 

1^9 JV •AZ7 

Very soon after writing the foregoing I happened to stroll 
around to the Ritz in the Place Vendome. It was the most ele- 
gant morgue that I ever visited. All the Americans and Eng- 
lish who are its mainstays in the summer time had gone. The 
last to leave were Mr. and Mrs. Harry Lehr and Mr. and Mrs. 
Perry Belmont, their destination being London, and Judge and 
Mrs. E. H. Gary, who were lucky enough to get out of Paris 
yesterday afternoon in an auto, for after six o'clock in the 



52 The Soul of Paris 

evening no more autos were allowed to leave the city until fur- 
ther orders by the military governor. Judge Gary, I under- 
stand, left the affairs of the American Protective Committee in 
charge of Secretary Hermann Hartjes. 

When I stepped out of the Ritz I found a great crowd had 
gathered in the Place V^endome which extended all the way up 
the Rue de la Paix to the Place de 1' Opera. Every one was 
gazing skyward. "There it is! There it is!" one after an- 
other exclaimed. "And there's another — that little speck over 
the chimney pots!' Evidently the Germans were not going to 
disappoint. Nearer and nearer came the aeroplanes, bigger and 
bigger grew the crowd. Some thought they might be French 
machines, as there was talk of organizing a flotilla to attack the 
enemy's avions. It soon was evident that they were not French 
and at once every one began to wonder where the bombs would 
fall. One avion about three thousand feet aloft came right 
over the Place Vendome. Perhaps the bomb would drop tliere. 
This same avion took a dip and then went around the Tour 
Eiffel, where it was received with a hail of bullets from the 
guns specially mounted on that structure for such a purpose. 
It sped away, sailed over the Tuileries, where marines on the 
roof of the headquarters of the Minister of Justice, next to the 
Ritz, took several shots at it with mitrailleuses, whereupon it 
took a turn to the north over the Louvre and soon was out of 
sight. The companion avion hovered over the outskirts of the 
city and disappeared earlier. Just a while ago I heard that 
three bombs had been dropped near the Avenue du Maine, but 
don't know if any one was injured. 

^® ^^> ^w 

After dinner the report again spread that the Government 
was preparing to leave Paris. I heard that there was unusual 



The Soul of Paris 53 



activity at the Elysee — the French "White House" — a few 
hours ago. Those who regard the move as likely tell me that 
it is merely a matter of prudence and convenience — that it re- 
ally signifies nothing serious, as the real Government for the 
time being is the military Government. However, it doesn't 
impress favorably the Americans here, who follow events close- 
ly. We can't help feeling that, unless grave facts are being 
held back from the public, it is a little early in the game for 
President Poincaire and the Ministry to retire from Paris. And 
I am awaiting with keen interest to see what to-morrow's issue 
of M. Clemenceau's paper, L'Homme Libre, will have to say 
on the situation. The Old Tiger is not quite satisfied with the 
reorganized Ministry, and a friend of his admitted to me to- 
night that if the Government hurries away it will not increase 
the public's confidence in its wisdom. As I said in a previous 
letter: Keep your eye on the Old Tiger; he's one of the ablest 
and most practical political leaders in France in spite of all his 
crankiness and bitterness! 

It is now eleven o'clock at night. The last half hour I spent 
strolling along the Boulevard from the Rue des Capucines to 
The Matin office. Almost a desert! Hardly a cab or auto 
to be had. The few that passed were occupied. Heaven 
knows what has become of them all! Two little groups of 
men were still discussing the aeroplanes on the Place de I'Opera, 
but that was the only sign of Paris life. So, too, late last night 
I took a drive up the Champs Elysee. Not a light except the 
almost full moon, which deepened the shadows of the trees, 
beneath which here and there sat little groups of men and 
women, while others strolled along the pathway like spectres. 
Off in the distance, at one end of the Arc de Triomphe loomed 



54 The Soul of Paris 

gloomy, majestic, triste — if I may use a French word — it 
seemed to me. From time to time overhead or dancing on the 
early autumn foliage of the beautiful chestnut trees the flam- 
ing sword of the searchlight on top of the Automobile Club 
on the Place de la Concorde could be seen. It is not for me to 
attempt to describe that early September night in the Champs 
Elysee. I have given an outline, a very bare outline. I leave 
it to your imagination to fill in the details. 

JSy J& Ji'a' 

Before closing this rambling letter (to catch a possible 
American mail in the morning) I must ask The Evening Sun to 
let me say a few words on a very serious subject — the diplo- 
matic service of the United States. 

Now, to my' limited intelligence, if we have learned anything 
from this damnable war it is the imperative necessity of main- 
taining that service on the very first grade — of at least trying 
to put it on a level with the diplomatic service of other nations 
of the first rank — of removing it absolutely and forever from 
internal party politics and permitting the capable and deserving 
men who enter it to devote their energy, intelligence and — may 
I emphasize it? — culture to the achievement of a career with 
the same seriousness and pertinacity with which a man devotes 
his life to the achievement of a career in the law, medicine, 
surgery or art. I have talked with hundreds of Americans 
who, when this "V/ar of Nations" broke out, found themselves 
in almost every part of Europe. They had occasion to come in 
touch with our diplomatic representatives in m.any countries. 
I shall refrain from telling some of the things that have been 
told m.e by friends of whose truthfulness I have no doubt. Some 
of them were sad stories of official intellectual limitations and — 
tact. 



The Soul of Paris 55 

But there is one man at least who looms large among all his 
colleagues — a man who has in every respect shown himself 
equal to the burden of responsibility thrust on him in these 
troublous times — a man of tact, of tireless energy, ready, re- 
sourceful, always reachable, always kindly and courteous, 
gifted with a sound, practical common sense, a man who knows 
men, dignified but always gracious, absolutely free from "pose," 
the absolute antithesis of the "snob" — a strong, straightforward, 
unaffected American gentleman. No wonder the French people 
have learned to esteem so highly our Ambassador to France, the 
Hon. Myron T. Herrick. During this awful crisis he con- 
sented to retain the position from which American internal party 
politics had decreed his dislodgment, and he consented at no 
little cost. But every American that has come through Paris 
since war broke out thanks Divine Providence or Kindly Fate 
that Myron T. Herrick stuck to his job. 




56 The Soul of Paris 



VIII. 

How Paris Felt When the Germans Were Almost at Her 
Gates — Departure of the Government to Bordeaux — 
Wild Times at the Railroad Station. 

Friday Night, Sept. 4, 1914. 
THOUGHT the letter I wrote two nights ago 
I would be my final Paris War Epistle to The 

Evening Sun readers. But here I am still per- 
force of business, which occasioned an extensive 
tour of the city to-day. So far I have not met 
any one who has seen a German in the Bois de 
Boulogne. We are pretty sure, however, that they are at Com- 
piegne, and every one knows that preparations have been made 
for a possible siege. 

To-night Paris is more than ever quiet. The electric signs 
disappeared some days ago, but now after nine o'clock nearly 
all the big electric globes that usually illuminate the boulevards 
are dark. While I was writing about the rumored intention 
of the Government to move to Bordeaux the transference was 
actually in progress, but the public remained m ignorance till 
the next morning. The move was accepted with serenity. 
Indeed, there was little or no adverse criticism. But it empha- 
sized the seriousness of the situation and accelerated the exodus 
of Americans and English and Parisians who could afford to 
leave or who have relatives in the provinces outside of the war 
area. 

Early to-morrow m.orning thn "boat train" for the France 
(which carries this letter) will !ake away nearly all the Ameri- 
cans v/ho have not definitely decided to stay here and see the 



The Soul of Paris 57 



war through. Those tliat are staying fare quite comfortably 
because of Ambassador Herrick's determination not to leave 
Paris during the war. My old friend Beesel, who has been 
forty years an attache of the embassy, referred gracefully to 
Mr. Herrick's decision when he said to me: "Mr. Herrick is 
a worthy successor of my first chief, Elihu Washburn, who saw 
the v/ar of 1870-71 through, and did himself proud thereby." 



It is eleven o'clock, and a silence only now and then broken 
by the footfall of a passing policeman prevails on the Rue des 
Capucines. The Place de la Concorde, just around the corner 
from my little Kotei de Calais, is as gloomy as a graveyard. 
The Ritz hasn't a guest. We are better off, for there are two 
of us, my fellow guest being a Polish gentleman. A few days 
ago every room was taken. Our present manager, Mr. Nasi, 
is an Italian naturalized American, who used to work for 
James B. Regan at the Knickerbocker Hotel. He took charge 
the day of mobilization, nearly five weeks ago; his predecessor, 
Mr. Rurnich,^ a most competent and courteous man, who had 
lived in Paris eighteen years, suddenly disappeared. He was a 
German. It is generally believed in the hotel that the Belgians 
caught him in Brussels and shot his as a "suspect." 

I shall never forget that morning of the m.obilization. As 
usual we rang for our 'petit dejeuner," but there was no re- 
sponse. Dressing, I descended to the dining room. 

"No more coffee served upstairs in the morning," I was told. 
"All the old waiters have gone." 

''To the frontier?" 

"Of course — but to the wrong side. They were all Ger- 
mans!" 

And indeed it was the same thing in nearly all the other 

♦Arriving In New York, I was glad to learn that Mr. 
Rumich is alive and well in Dusseldorf. 



58 The Soul of Paris 

Paris hotels, where of late years nothing was so rare as a 
French waiter. Manager Nasi, however, discovered a few, but 
none ever stayed very long, for one after another was called to 
the colors. A week ago the head waiter, Yves, a handsome 
and intelligent Gaul, suddenly disappeared. He had had a 
"hurry call" to join his artillery regiment at Vincennes. A fine 
chap he was. We haven't an idea where he is now. To-night 
as I was starting upstairs through the silent hall Francois, the 
omniscient concierge, bright-eyed and rosy cheeked, never tiring 
in his efforts to be helpful, always ready to answer any fool 
question that was put to him, remarked very quietly: 

"Well, Monsieur, I'm leaving Paris before you. I've got 
my call for to-morrow. I hope to have a few hours to see that 
my widowed sister and her little ones at Versailles are com- 
fortable. Perhaps I'll never see them again." 

I like Francois very much. He has done a lot of nice things 
for me during the months I've been at this hotel. I won't tell 
you just how silly I must have looked when we took leave of 
one another. Suffice it to say that I reached my chamber feel- 
ing very sad indeed. I don't want to stay here very long after 
Francois has gone. Francois is only the concierge of a modest 
Paris hotel, but shaking hands with him to-night affected me 
as deeply as any other incident to which I have been a party in 
this damnable war. 

'■Jfc*' "^BI" ^R* 

n/S' us •^' 

The serenity with which the population seemed to-day to 
meet the situation was most marked. I see now that the de- 
parture of the Government at this time was a wise move ; it took 
all the politicians and fight-dodging office holders — embusques, 
Mr. Clemenceau calls them — out of Paris; at the same time 
it precipitated the flight of the timorous and the hysterical. So 



The Soul of Paris 59 

that the Parisians we see in the shops and on the streets to-day 
are those who are not afraid of the outcome, who don't beheve 
the Germans will reach Paris, or who are ready to face the 
worst if it comes, without flinching. To use my old figure, I 
found the emotional barometer very steady to-day. English 
soldiers, whom we see here quite often, have been talking very 
cheerily about Compiegne, which leads the public to expect 
good news to-morrow or very soon after. The French seem 
quite proud of their English Allies, by the way, and British 
uniforms always attract a little crowd when they are seen on the 
boulevards. The newspapers help it along. For instance, here 
is a sample in this evening's Intransigeant : 

"The English army which is north of Paris arouses the 
admiration of all who have seen it by its cleanliness, its bearing, 
its coolness in attacks. At daybreak all its men go bathing in 
the Oise. After the battle in which they took ten cannon from 
the Germans they immediately rushed for the river, and an eye- 
witness assures us that during their bath the most uproarious 
gaiety reigned." 

The exodus of so many well-to-do and fashionable women 
who at the outset of hostilities were so active in organizing Red 
Cross and similar affairs has had its effect. Four weeks ago 
many women who offered their services were told that they 
were not needed. To-day, however, the authorities have put 
up posters calling for women to lend a helping hand in caring 
for the sick and wounded. I rather fear the visits of the Ger- 
man aeroplaning had a noxious effect on a lot of philanthropic 
enthusiasm. 

k/z^ i3(^ ^^/ 

By the way, we've had no German aeroplane visitation for 
two days. When it failed to arrive yesterday afternoon around 



60 The Soul of Paris 

six o'clock I verily believe the Parisians were disappointed. 
They had grown used to it. It provided a "spectacle," and 
every good viewpoint Vv'as crowded with skygazers arir^ed v/ith 
opera glasses. The Butte Montmartre especially was sought, 
much to the delight of the little cafes up there w^ho must have 
regarded the German avion as a heaven-sent messenger. Fran- 
cois explained it when he rem.arked: 

''You see, Monsieur, the 'Taube' has taken the place of the 
late afternoon aperitif. It's a splendid substitute for absinthe." 

Jw ^w ^S" 

I think I had a unique ride to-day. Some thirty trunks, con- 
taining the costumes and personal efFects of important artists of 
the Metropolitan Opera Company — Mine. Alda, Miss Farrar, 
Mme. Matzenauer, Mr. Amato and Mr. Ferrari-Fontana (all 
of whom are in Italy with the exception of Miss Farrar, who 
is in Munich) — had been left by them in Paris, their intention 
being to return here on their way back to New York. The 
question was how to get those trunks across the Atlantic. Im- 
possible to ship them to Italy. Nor could the express com- 
panies risk a promise to get them over within any definite period. 
The France is sailing to-morrow morning; the trunks must go on 
her, or who could tell when they would go if the Germans got 
around to the Havre Railroad line? Director Grignon of the 
French line finally yielded to my plea; he consented to them 
being checked through on to-morrow's boat. But they must get 
to the station before seven o'clock. They got there, but they 
wouldn't if it hadn't been for a big two-wheeled charette a 
charbon. (As this has to do with Operatic Art I think "charette 
a charbon" sounds better than "coal cart.") It was the only 
conveyance to be had for love or money, but it served the pur- 
pose and I was quite proud of the energy and enthusiasm of the 



The Soul of Paris 61 

grimy faced little French driver (My! but he was grimy!), who 
with an equally dirty comrade also helped handle the trunks, 
as I rode down the Champs Elysee into the Place de la Con- 
corde and up to the St. Lazare station seated on top of that 
pile of trunks, with Miss Farrar's French maid on one side of 
me and Mme. Alda's femme de chambre on the other. But 
the funniest thing is that nobody who saw us thought it was the 
least bit funny. 



62 The Soul of Paris 



IX. 




HoTv the Plain People Spent a Memorable Sunday — Visiting 
the "Quarters" xvith a Modern Gavroche — A Chat ivith 
a Repatriated Franco- American. 

Paris, Sunday Night, Sept. 6, 1914. 

OW I wish my many American friends who know, 
who love Paris for all the finer things it represents, 
could have been here with me to enjoy this won- 
derfully beautiful September Sunday ! Never did 
an early autumn sun shine more kindly upon this 
great city. Never did the trees on the boulevards 
and in the squares and parks seem to retain their verdure so 
long as this year. 

The touch of brown is there, but autumn still seems unready 
for her "cue" and willing to share her honors with a lingering 
summer. I don't know what the sun looked down upon to-day 
in Vienna, or in Petersburg, or in Berlin, or in Brussels, but I 
do know that here in Paris it shown upon two million men, 
women and children who, though ready for a siege, seem either 
calmly confident of the future or almost indifferent to its oft- 
predicted terrors. 

As I told you in my last letter, the exodus of the timorous, of 
the national Government and of the politicians resulted in a 
restoration of the normal tranquillity of the city. Anybody 
who wanted to get away could have done so, for the Govern- 
ment provided plenty of free trains to distant provinces in 
France. So that those who still are here may be said to be 
here by choice. My experiences to-day convince me that they 



The Soul of Paris 63 

believe that they have chosen the part of wisdom, and the over- 
whelming opinion among them is that we are not going to have 
any siege at all! 

By the time this letter reaches New York Paris may be 
bottled up tight; but I am not dealing in prophecy; only trying 
to reflect the spirit and the life of the city during these critical 
days. 

"A siege of Paris!", exclaimed my newsdealer on the boule- 
vard. "Why, Monsieur, it is only a bluff — a blague — a reve 
de fumiste — (in other words, a "pipe dream"). 

Such was the view of almost every Parisian I met to-day. 
We had learned from the brief Government announcement that 
the Germans had moved away from Compiegne to the South- 
east. We had heard that Lord Kitchener — a name to conjure 
with — had been in town for several days. W^e had read the 
ironclad agreement made by England, France and Russia which 
the French have designated as "The Holy Alliance." We had 
heard that the English were bringing Indian troops from the 
Orient and that they might land any day at Marseilles. Though 
not a newspaper had printed a word about it, it was on every- 
body's lips that an army of Russians is being imported by way 
of the White Sea and Scotland. The brief official announce- 
ments of the new Military Governor of Paris, General Gallieni, 
also fortified the courage of tlie Parisian population. And on 
top of all this, glorious weather, weather to warm the hearts, to 
stimulate the spirits and to invite to the city parks and wooded 
suburbs ! 



Early in the afternoon I found myself in the neighborhood of 
the Northern Railway station, watching the crowds of holiday 



64 The Soul of Paris 

makers — for such really describes them — making for the little 
towns but a few miles out. Chance led me into conversation 
with a t5Tpical Paris gamin, about eighteen or nineteen years of 
age. There was something interesting about the boy that drew 
me to him. i gave him a two-cent cigar and his eyes beamed, 
but with true Gallic pohteness he pulled a package of pepper- 
mint lozenges from his pocket and insisted upon my sharing 
them with him in return. 

"Who are you and what do you do?" I asked him. 

"Leon Dieux is my name," he replied, and to prove it he 
pulled half a dozen family documents from= his pocket. "I 
worked for a m.ilk dealer till the war closed his shop. Since 
then I have been trying to pick up some money handling bag- 
gage at the stations, but now the trains don't take any baggage 
and most of the people who had any baggage to take have gone, 
and it is hard to make both ends meet. My father, who had 
fought in Madagascar and won a medal, died four years ago 
from a disease contracted in the army. The year after my 
mother died, leaving me and five younger brothers." 

"And do you look after them all?" I inquired. 

"Oh, no, sir; I got them with the Assistance Publique, and 
each of them has a good home somewhere in the country. Once 
a month I go to the Assistance Publique and they tell me how 
they are getting on. As for myself, like all the rest of us poor 
people in Paris, we get twenty-five sous a day from the Mairie 
of our quarter, and kind people provide plenty of soup kitchens 
for those that need it, all over Paris. No need so far for any- 
body to starve in this city, and a poor boy like me knows what 
he is talking about. Vegetables are cheap — like potatoes for 
four sous a kilogram. Then, you know, we poor people always 
try to help one another." 



The Soul of Paris 65 

I wish you could have heard that boy talk. How my heart 
warmed to him and how I wished I had the cost of one of the 
smallest — the very smallest — of the Carnegie libraries to be 
able to take hold of him, and through him hundreds of other 
Paris gamins, who doubtless have the same fine feeling and life 
struggles as he, to give them a fair start in life in Paris when 
the war is over, or bring them to America and place them where 
they would do themselves and America the most good. 

"Well, Leon," said I, "I suppose you have heard about the 
War of 1870-71 and the terrible siege of Paris of those days, 
and the horrors of the Commune which followed?" 

"Certainly I have. Monsieur — from the old people" ; and he 
proceeded to prove that he was not boasting. 

"Then," said I, "I would like you to take me around to the 
quarters where the Communistes principally came from in those 
days. Let me see how your friends, the working people, are 
behaving themselves this time." 

"Quite easy. Monsieur, but it is a bit of a walk." 

"Why not take a taxi ride with me?" I inquired. 

Ah! the expression on his face! A blush came to his 
cheeks. I saw him throw a glance down at his shabby clothes, 
his worn-out shoes. But that was only for a moment. There 
was nothing servile about him, only politeness in his tone, when 
he replied: 

"I certainly would." 

So we called a cab and I made him get in first, leaving it to 
him to direct the chauffeur where to take us. Leon knew his 
business and he seemed to divine instinctively what I wanted to 
see. And at once we were off for the Belleville quarter. 

Belleville! What a name that is in the annals of the Com- 
mune! On our way we passed that beautiful artificial park 



66 The Soul of Paris 

with its hills and valleys and lake, so little known to the average 
tourist — the Buttes Chaumont. 

"Closed to the public. Monsieur," explained the boy. "You 
see it is filled with cows and sheep. All the water has been 
drawn from the lake and the bed is stocked with rabbits. Oh, 
we will have plenty to eat if we have a siege — but there will 
not be any!" 

A few minutes more and v/e v/ere at the northeastern fortifi- 
cations, looking out in the direction of the battling hosts. De- 
scending from the taxi Leon, the chauffeur and I found a place 
at a cafe that faces the Porte des Lilas and ordered our after- 
noon coffee. Anyone who supposes that Paris is deserted 
should have seen the swarming populace at that end of the city 
this afternoon. It was like a fete day. There was no noisy 
gayety, but a spirit of good cheer reigning everywhere. It was 
entirely a working •class population, composed of individuals 
who for their means looked v/ell clad and well fed, and who 
dwelt in habitations which seemed to me much m_ore comfort- 
able, brighter, airier and better kept than are to be found in any 
corresponding quarter of the great, modern city of New York. 

While we were drinking our coffee and talking the crowd 
around us seemed quite indifferent to my invasion until a solid- 
looking man of about fifty-five, seated with a pleasant-faced 
wife ten years younger, turned to me and said in perfect 
English : 

"You must be an American." 

I was struck dumb for a moment. 

"And you?" I replied. 

"Why, I am an American, too," said he, ''only I was born 
in France, just outside of the city here at les Lilas. I lived in 
America tv/enty-five years, in New York, San Francisco and 
New Orleans. I came back to Paris during the exhibition to 
install some machinery and I have stayed here ever since. My 



The Soul of Paris 67 

name is Victor Peters, and I used to work for the Worthington 
Pump Gjmpany." 

Mr. and Mrs, Peters, Master Leon and I then took a stroll 
along the fortifications with the rest of the working people. 
Leon explained to me how in case of siege the ditch on the out- 
side of the walls could be quickly flooded with water. Then 
we watched a gang of laborers piling up paving stones outside 
the gate to form a barricade against the enemy's assault, and 
we saw them cutting down big trees and laying over these 
stones. Sentries stood at the gates, but apart from these sights 
no one would ever imagine that war was going on, that the 
Germans were within tv/enty miles of the city, and that every- 
thing was being put in order for a possible siege. I found 
Mr. Peters to be a very level-headed man; he knew the 
psychology of the working classes of Paris perfectly. He re- 
membered the siege of 1 871 as a boy of eleven; he remembered 
the mad excitement of the Commune. 

"Everything is quite diiferent from what it was in those days; 
there are no better patriots in France than those working people 
that you see around here," said he. "They know that they 
are part and parcel of the Government; that their vote is just 
as good as that of Baron Rothschild. Things were not like 
that in the days of the Second Empire. France was then cursed 
with Imperialism, just as Germany has been in later days. To- 
day we are a free people fighting to remain free. The working 
classes of Germany, on the other hand, are the slaves of a 
military despotism, who are being forced to fight — for what? — 
to rivet the shackles of slavery more tightly on their hands and 
feet. I do not know how long this war will continue," he 
added. "We have had a pretty hard time standing up under 



68 The Soul of Paris 

the strain of the immense mass of the German army; but our 
people have courage and faith and enthusiasm, and I really 
think that the tide is soon going to turn in our favor." 



Taking leave of Mr. Peters and his wife my "guide, 
philosopher and (I think I may add) friend," Leon and I re- 
sumed our course. He took me round past Pere Lachaise 
Cemetery and showed me La Petite Roquette prison, pointed 
out carefully where the guillotine has been erected many times 
(he assured me he had never seen an execution and never wanted 
to), stopped the taxi at the Place de la Bastille to tell me why 
there was a "1 4th of July"; then over to the Gare du Lyon 
to see several regiments going off amid the cheers of the popu- 
lace to join their comrades ; then down to the working class sec- 
tions of southern Paris, always calling my attention to the 
crowds we met and their cheerful aspect. He took me to three 
or four other city gates which had been ordered closed by Gen. 
Gallieni, and we found all of them barricaded with huge trees. 

Last of all Leon would have the chauffeur take us past the 
extensive buildings of the Assistance Publique. He was proud 
of that institution — wasn't it the foster mother of his five 
younger brothers? — and he wanted me to see just what sort of 
an institution it really was. When the taxi reached my little 
Hotel de Calais and Leon was about to depart, I asked him: 

"What are your plans in life now?" 

"Well," said he, "I will have to do the best that I can till 
the war is over, and then I hope I will get my job back in the 
milk business. Next year I will have to begin my three years' 
military service. After that if I get another good milk job I'll 
get married. In the meantime my brothers will be growing up 



The Soul of Paris 69 

and leaving the Assistance Publique, and they will be able to 
take care of themselves. 

"Life is pretty hard, Monsieur, at times, but things might be 
much worse for a fellow like me." 

"Isn't there something special that you'd like to have just 
now?" I inquired as he shook hands with me and made a date 
for a future meeting. 

Leon rubbed his head thoughtfully for a moment, looked 
down at his feet and replied "Do you think you have an old 
pair of shoes that you don't need. Monsieur?" 

Old pair of shoes, gentle reader ! Old pair of shoes ! Why, 
Leon shall have one of the best pair of shoes that Leon has ever 
had in his life. And wouldn't you like to have the privilege of 
contributing to the purchase? 



70 The Soul of Paris 



T 



X. 



Waiting for Good Nervs — Newspaper Men and War Corre- 
spondents — Their Liability to Be Shot — One American 
Woman "Who Remained'' — Misplaced Sympath}}. 

Paris, Tuesday Afternoon, Sept. 8, 1914. 

HE big battle is on. That much we know this Tues- 
day afternoon. Vague rumors reach us that things 
are going well for the Allies. Definite news is 
absolutely lacking. Paris remains cool and confi- 
dent. The feeling is abroad that the tide is about 
to turn. In the little cafes, in the tobacco shops, 
every one says to everybody else, "Tout va mieux" — 
("Things are going better"). I wonder if this is the 
truth? Let the reader look at the date of this letter 
and compare it with the facts as they are in the mean- 
time revealed to see whether the impression be true or false. 
Everything is delightfully pleasant here to-day and I can assure 
my good friend, Mr. Otto H. Kahn, who sends me a sym- 
pathetic cable, that there is no summer resort in America more 
delightful at present than Paris. It requires no heroism what- 
ever to remain here — at this writing — but if the big battle in 
progress results in a serious defeat of the Allies the situation 
may suddenly become quite different. 

Being the citizen of a neutral country, and having so much 
respect for President Wilson, I am restrained from letting the 
readers of The Evening Sun know whether I am Francophile 
or Germanophile. Besides the impression in journalistic circles 



The Soul of Paris 71 

here is that newspaper men are liable as prisoners of war, 
and I really don't like the idea of having the bullet of a German 
soldier (who might possibly be a grand opera Wagnerian tenor) 
cut short a brilliant career which my friend. Dr. Metchnikoff, 
assures me should last at least fifty years longer ! 

We discussed this question of journalistic liability at a 
monthly breakfast of the Anglo-American newspaper corre- 
spondents yesterday. Grundy of The Sun presided, and there 
were about twenty-five others, including Williams, Bertelli, 
Bernard, Sims, Gordon Smith and a lot of other good chaps. 
None of these men, you understand, are "war correspondents." 
They don't need any brevet, but they are here "on the job" 
night and day doing their work like good soldiers; trying to 
tell the truth as far as the censors will let them; serving their 
public and their employers faithfully. When the "war corre- 
spondents" want "real news" I notice that they have to come 
to them. Please don't consider this any reflection upon the 
brilliant and experienced gentlemen who have been specially sent 
across the Atlantic to describe current events in Europe; but 
just as an ordinary reporter who started in doing police 
news about thirty-one years ago in the modest city of Baltimore, 
and who is now permitted to express himself journalistically in 
a paper as important as The Evening Sun, I want to pay a 
well-deserved tribute to the American correspondents who are 
sticking by their guns in Paris. 

^©^ ^©^ ^^ ' 

I was up at our Embassy this morning and found that already 
three hundred Americans had registered as having apartments 
of permanent abode in Paris. However, an American is really 
a rare bird on the streets these days; but wherever he is dis- 
covered he is treated with the greatest cordiality, and I can only 



72 The Soul of Paris 

repeat that Ambassador Herrick's determination to remain in 
Paris, no matter what happens, has put him almost on a par 
in the eyes of the Parisian public with the Military Governor, 
Gen. Gallieni. Mr. Bacon, the former Ambassador, is here 
on private business, while Mr. Herrick's successor, Mr. Sharp, 
is here studying the situation and preparing himself for the time 
in which he will take charge. You will realize how few Amer- 
icans there are in Paris when I tell you that even Abe Hummel 
has left for London and that Boyd Neel and his brother, who 
have conducted an Anglo-American banking and brokerage 
office for thirty years, have also gone across the Channel. They 
left their office in charge of their veteran bookkeeper, William 
Brickley, who has been in Paris since before the war of 1 870. 

"I am going to stay right here," said Mr. Brickley. "I don't 
think there is a thing to worry about. I saw the siege of '71 , 
and if there is to be a siege of 1914 I expect to live through 
that, too. But, my boy, upon my honor, I don't think there will 
be any siege at all." 

So you see Mr. Brickley is not running away or losing any 
sleep o' nights through fear of the German shells, and he has not 
even sent away his grandchildren or children to the country. 



Yesterday afternoon I paid a visit to a charming, cultured 
American woman who lives here, who did me a great favor at 
one occasion and whom I had not seen for several years. I 
heard she was remaining in Paris and ventured to intrude upon 
her privacy. She lives in an avenue lined with beautiful trees. 
She has an apartment that is roomy and elegant and yet simple, 
as might be expected of her good taste. I found her in what 
might be called her large workroom ; in the centre a desk strewn 



The Soul of Paris 73 

with papers; all around the high walls a library that made my 
mouth water and recalled the remark of Oliver Wendell 
Holmes that a man with even a taste for literature should feel in 
the presence of books as a stable boy does in the presence of 
horses. 

"What!" she exclaimed, "are you still here?" 

When I had explained my reasons for so being she assured 
me that it was her purpose also to remain, no matter what hap- 
pened. "I find my life here tranquil and satisfying," she said. 
"You see my books; you see my papers; and when I am not 
busy writing or reading I am devoting myself to hospital work 
seriously. There was a great outburst of enthusiasm not only 
among American women, but among French women at the be- 
ginning of the war, but after five weeks you would be surprised 
to know how many of these enthusiasts have disappeared from 
the field of action. At first they had to turn away the appli- 
cants for Red Cross work, but now we can't find enough 
helpers. I am going to a committee meeting this afternoon, but 
I fear we won't have a quorum! However, the work will go on 
and I trust that The Evening Sun will let its readers know that 
the efforts of the American Ambulance at Neuilly are worthy 
of our nation and of our humanitarian spirit." 

I am not mentioning this lady's name. She seeks no reclame. 
But I left her feeling that she would worthily represent Ameri- 
can philanthropy and American culture in the work she is doing 
here in Paris during these hours so terribly tragic, and her last 
words still ring in my ears: 

"Ah ! If Americans at home could only realize to one-tenth 
degree the unspeakable awfulness of this war! My own con- 
cierge has no less than thirty-nine male relatives facing the 
enemy. Is not that alone a thought 'too deep for tears?' " 



74 The Soul of Paris 

■\ 

Doubtless you know that several Paris newspapers disap- 
peared with the Government to Bordeaux or stopped publication 
altogether. Le Temps, which is a sort of a newspaper Bible in 
France, is being printed in the town where the claret comes from, 
and only to-day its Sunday paper reached Paris. An order 
has been issued forbidding newsboys to shout the name of their 
paper in the street. One gamin, however, thought he was 
"within the law" when, after putting the name of his paper in 
large letters upon his hat, he cried: 

"Who wants the paper the name of which I can't tell you?" 

Among the crowd waiting to take the tram car that starts 
from the corner of the Rue de la Fourth Septembre and the 
Avenue de I'Opera yesterday stood a tall, good-looking young 
woman with an almost naked baby in her bare arms and her- 
self clad in what looked to me like to burlap bags bound around 
her waist with a piece of ordinary rope. Her ankles were bare 
and she wore sandals. She impressed me as a very distressing 
object. At once I thought of the stories of the outrages of the 
invaders, and I pushed my way through the sympathizing crov'/d 
around her to learn something of her sad history. 

"I suppose you are one of the Belgian victims, Madame?" I 
said, "for your plight seems to be something awful. Have you 
no friends to whom you could appeal for relief?" 

"Thank you very much, Monsieur," she replied in the most 
musical French; "I am not a Belgian, but a Parisienne. I have 
undergone no hardships whatever, and the only thing that is 
troubling me just now is whether I can get a place on this next 
tram car for Raincy. It may interest you to know that I am 
one of Raymond Duncan's dancing school assistants." 



The Soul of Paris 75 

Personal intelligence — Tod Sloan has closed his bar on the 
Rue Daunou, but does not think he will return to America. 
He told me to-day he found the Paris climate, even during the 
war, more to his liking. 

Henry's bar is still doing business, though the Pilsener bier 
is masquerading under the name of "Biere de la Meuse." 

For the first time in his life Charles Henry Meltzer decided 
that London was preferable to Paris and he left us last week. 



76 The Soul of Paris 




XL 



A Well- Authenticated "Atrocity" — More Hotels Closing — 
Romain Rolland's Letter to Gerard Hauptmann — Rigid 
Work of the Censor of the Press. 

Paris, Wednesday, Sept. 9, 1914. 

RS. DAVID CALLAHAN is my stenographer. 
She is a Frenchwoman born in Paris, and she is 
now taking my dictation. Her husband is an 
American of Irish parentage. I know him very 
well. He is an employee of the American Express 
Company, and year after year has cashed my 
American Express checks or handed me my letters. I state 
these facts so that you will know that Mrs. Callahan is a truth- 
ful woman. She came to my hotel ten minutes ago with tears 
in her eyes. 

"What is the matter with you?" I said. 
"Oh!" she replied, "I have just heard something awful — 
something I would not have believed possible!" 
"Out with it, quick!" I exclaimed. 

"Why," said she, "my concierge's best friend has just come 
back from seeing her son, who was in the light last week and 
was wounded and taken to the hospital. Both his hands had 
been cut off while he lay wounded and helpless on the battle 
field!" 

I do not think I have said anything about the alleged Ger- 
man barbarities in any of the letters that I have written to The 
Evening Sun. I have many dear German friends, friends for 



The Soul of Paris 77 

whom I have the highest respect, generous, kindly, "gemuth- 
lich." I am the last man to beHeve the stories which I have 
heard and read about the savagery of the German soldiers. 
Could it be possible that representatives of a nation which had 
produced a Goethe, a Schiller, a Wagner, a Kant, a Hegel, a 
Humboldt, a Haeckel, not to mention other names eminent in 
art, in literature, in science, could in this twentieth century be 
guilty of such an atrocity? 

I submit this single fact, of which there is absolutely no 
doubt, to the conscience of the great American people — and 
there I rest. 

My hotel is going to be closed to-morrow. The past few 
days it has been filled with English Red Cross nurses and doc- 
tors. The nurses are a rosy cheeked, bright, intelligent, healthy 
lot. They are all deeply interested in the training school at St. 
Luke's Hospital of New York and of my dear old alma mater, 
the Johns Hopkins of Baltimore. The dozen English doctors 
are a splendid lot of young fellows, fully up to date in their 
science, and one of them is going to vaccinate me against typhoid 
to-morrow before his comrades and the nurses leave to take 
charge of the Red Cross Hospital into which the Majestic 
Hotel has been turned. 

Although the hotel is about to be closed, the Italo-American 
manager, Mr. Nasi, and the cashier, Mr. Wend, who looks like 
and has the dignity of a member of the Academic Francaise 
(I wish I had his picture to send you, for his head is really 
beautiful), have consented to let me remain as long as I want 
to, and as my young Parisian gamin friend, Leon Dieux, reports 
to me twice a day for instructions, I don't feel a bit lonely. 

Leon, by the way, does not think about himself only. Yes- 



78 The Soul of Paris 

terday he surprised me by bringing a young fifteen-year-old 
friend of his named Hermann Jacques, a gamin like himself, 
whose father is a tailor out of a job, who has a natural talent 
for sketching. Little Jacques I found to be another "type," 
clever and full of ideas. He brought me several pictures he has 
made since the beginning of the war, and I immediately wanted 
to be a Sunday editor again so that I could "play up" his 
"stuff" for at least a page. Since the mobilization Jacques has 
been making a sort of a living doing charcoal sketches in front 
of the few cafes that remain open. Leon thinks he is "great," 
and that is why he brought him to see me. I gave him two or 
three suggestions which he discussed with unusual intelligence 
for a boy of his age, and I am sending you herewith the result 
thereof to judge for yourself the artistic merits of this raga- 
muffin street boy of Paris. The "kid" has learned the tailoring 
business from his father. Is not there some philanthropic New 
Yorker who is willing to bring him to America, get him a job 
at a tailor's shop and let him go to the Cooper Institute at night? 

3^? ^ro m^> 

Have you ever read Romain Rolland's "Jean Christophe?" 
It is a wonderful book — the biography of a musician beginning 
before his birth. Holt has published a translation of it. If 
you are interested in music or art get it. When you have read 
it you will understand the anguish of its author in the presence 
of the carnage that is saturating the soil of Europe with blood. 

Rolland has written a letter to his friend, the eminent Ger- 
man litterateur and playwright, Gerard Hauptmann, which is 
printed in a Lausanne paper. It is a protest against the treat- 
ment of Belgium, and some extracts are worth while being 
reprinted : 



The Soul of Paris 79 

"The fury," says he, "with which you treat this magnan- 
imous Httle nation whose only crime has been to defend to des- 
peration its independence and justice as you yourselves, Ger- 
mans, did in 1813, is unspeakable. A worldwide indignation 
revolts against it. Reserve these violences for us Frenchmen, 
whom you consider your real enemies. But to give vent to your 
savagery against this little Belgian nation, unfortunate and 
innocent — what shame! And not content with venting your 
spleen upon the living, you make war upon the dead, upon the 
glory of the ages. You bombard Malines; you burn up Louvain. 
Louvam is no longer anything but a pile of ashes — Louvain, 
with its treasures of art, of science; Louvain, the holy city! 
What in God's name are you? And with what name would 
you have us call you in these times, Hauptmann — you who 
reject the title of barbarians? Are you the descendants of 
Goethe or of Attila the Hun? Are you waging war against 
the armies of your enemies or against the human kind? Kill, 
destroy men, but have respect for the creations of their intellect. 
You, like the rest of us, are the depositaries of their intel- 
ligence. In destroying it as you do, you show yourselves 
unworthy of your great heritage — unworthy of taking rank in 
the little army of Europeans which is the guard of honor of 
civilization. You give the world proof that, incapable of de- 
fending its liberty, you are even incapable of defending your 
own and that intellectual Germany is subject to the most pitiless 
despotism — that which destroys the masterpieces of genius and 
assassinates human intelligence. I await a response from you, 
Hauptmann — a response which shall be an act. The united 
opinion of Europe awaits it as I do. Bear in mind, in such a 
moment even silence is an act." 

So far Mr. Rolland has received no response from his literary 
confrere. 



80 The Soul of Paris 

The censure of the press, as you knov/, is very rigid here. 
Last evening's Intransigeant appeared with a beautiful blank 
space all the way down its first column. Its principal editor, 
Mr. Bailby, evidently had written an article of unusual interest. 
Unfortunately it was too interesting for public consumption, and 
we are all wondering what it all was about. Perhaps some of 
these days he will tell us. 

Meanwhile the big battle is going on. The feeling prevails 
that the Allies are holding their own, and the "Siege de Paris 
de 1914" for the moment is regarded as more remote than ever. 



The Soul of Paris 81 



M 



XII. 



One of the ''Last Parisians" — Arthur Meyer, the Veteran 
Royalist Editor — His Reminiscences of the Outbreak of 
the War of 1870 — Sticking to His Post. 

Paris, Thursday, Sept. 10, 1914. 

ONSIEUR ARTHUR MEYER is the Dean of 
Parisian Journalism, probably one of the most in- 
teresting personalities in the life of this wonderful 
city. Monsieur Meyer is a link with the past. 
He began with the Second Empire. He is the 
editor and proprietor of The Gaulois, the Royalist 
organ, the newspaper which circulates in the most exclusive 
French society, the paper of the Faubourg St. Germain, of the 
"ancienne noblesse." I know of no more eminent "Type 
Parisien" than Monsieur Arthur Meyer. His life is like a 
Balzac romance. He is truly a character worthy of the 
"Comedie Humaine." About sixty-eight years old, rather 
short of stature but well built, aquiline nose, clean-shaven chin, 
gray side whiskers and mustache, a bald head set off with two 
tufts of gray hair above his well-shaped ears and a pair of won- 
derfully keen gray-blue eyes — there you have Monsieur Arthur 
Meyer. 

*A week ago the transfer of the Government to Bordeaux 
and the scare caused by a possibility of a new siege of Paris 
drove most of the so-called Parisians and boulevardiers to Bor- 
deaux or elsewhere in the provinces beyond the war area. As 
you know, a number of Paris newspapers also either transferred 



82 The Soul of Paris 

their publications to the temporary capital or discontinued their 
editions entirely. Not so The Gaulois! Not so M. Arthur 
Meyer! The Gaulois is still on the newsstands every morning, 
but instead of having four or six pages it has only two, and its 
ordinarily luxurious price of three cents has been patriotically 
reduced to one. A few days ago The Gaulois published a 
leading article signed by M. Meyer, entitled "Ayons Con- 
fiance" ("Let Us Have Confidence"), which was as fine a bit 
of patriotic eloquence as I ever read. Let me quote a few lines 
from it: 

''Those of us Parisians who have retreated to the provinces 
have acted in the fullness of their privilege. But there are 
others of us, much less numerous, who are remaining here. I 
am one of them. Here I am and here I shall stay in 1 9 1 4 as 
I stayed here in 1 870. I shall continue to direct my newspaper 
with the little force of editors whom the service of the Father- 
land has not taken away from me. It is my only family to-day, 
since my other family is far away, alas! In remaining I con- 
sider that I am doing nothing but what is perfectly natural. 
My friends have seen fit in the peaceful years which preceded 
this war to designate me as one of the 'derniers Parisiens.' It is 
an honor. But when an honor is conferred on one he must 
know how to live up to it." 

^©^ ^©^ ^P^ 

You will agree with me that a man who writes like this is 
worthy of the dignity which attaches to his title of Dean of 
Parisian Journalism. And I am sure you will envy me the hour 
that I spent with him this afternoon in his editorial workship at 
the corner of the Rue Drouot and the Boulevard des Italiens. 
I had hardly taken a seat opposite his desk when we heard from 
outside an unusual noise — unusual in these tranquil days in 



The Soul of Paris 83 

Paris. At first there was just a murmur. It seemed to come 
from the Place de I'Opera. Louder and louder it grew. In a 
few minutes it was a roar. M. Meyer and I rushed to the 
window just in time to see a taxicab dash along the Boulevard 
containing three English soldiers and two Frenchmen, and over 
all waving in the air a German flag! It was an exciting 
moment. The pent-up emotions of the Parisian populace sud- 
denly burst loose. Every one cheered at the top of his voice 
and threw his hat high in the air. No one knew where the flag 
came from or who had captured it, but there it was — a German 
flag, and it represented success somewhere. The apparition was 
over in a moment. The boulevards immediately recovered 
their sangfroid. A most extraordinary exhibition. 

JS' ^®^ 3^ 

M. Meyer and I resumed our seats and our conversation 
wandered through a dozen fields of interest — political, literary, 
artistic, historic. What he does not know about the Paris of 
the last forty or fifty years is not worth knowing; but I would 
not pretend or be indelicate enough to attempt to reproduce his 
conversation as a whole. However, let me recount to you some 
of his reminiscences of forty-four years ago which may interest 
the generation which is those days was not yet born. 

"After the telegram of Ems so cleverly altered by Bis- 
marck," says M. Meyer, "war was inevitable and it was de- 
clared. All France was mad. Everybody decorated his 
house — illuminated it; cheered our little soldiers as they 
marched through Paris; accompanied them to the railroad 
stations shouting 'On to Berlin! On to Berlin!' The most 
popular artists of the day, Faure, Marie Sasse, Capoul, whom 
you know so well and esteem so highly in America, were com- 



84 The Soul of Paris 

pelled to sing the 'Marseillaise' in the streets until the authori- 
ties had to stop it. 

"I was at the opera in the box of my master and friend, 
Emile de Girardin, at the performance of Auber's 'Muette de 
Portici.' It was the 21 si of July, 1870. Paris was in a 
patriotic effervescence. The public has just encored the duo 
'Armour sacre de la Patrie' when a cry arose from all over the 
house — 'The Marseillaise ! The Marseillaise ! ' At once push- 
ing her way through the crowd on the stage Marie Sasse ap- 
peared draped in white, waving the tricolor. A thunderous 
hurrah drowned her voice. *Up, gentlemen; up!' shouted some- 
body in the orchestra. Instantly every one was on his feet and 
the national hymn was listened to in absolute silence. After 
the last couplet the enthusiasm became indescribable. Men and 
women took up the chorus, and suddenly I heard my friend 
Girardin, as though electrified, cry 'Vive I'Armee!' to which 
the entire audience responded. 



"How terrible was our awakening when we learned of the 
defeat of the victor of the Crimea and of Italy at Reichshoffen, 
of his retreat and the defeat at Speichern! At Reichshoffen 
our mitrailleuses proved powerless and they were even captured. 
At Speichern the Prussians defeated us witli the bayonette — 
the bayonette, you must remember the favorite arm of the little 
French 'Piou Piou' — the name which represents to us what 
'Tommy Atkins' does to the Englishman. When the bayonette 
failed, when the mitrailleuse was unsuccessful, it seemed as if 
we had lost everything. You have no idea what a magic that 
word 'mitrailleuse' had in those days. With it we thought we 
could accomplish anything. To-day we talk of the aeroplane, 



The Soul of Paris 85 

but I have said all along we must not put too much faith in its 
effectiveness. Confidence and discipline in the army is the thing. 
They seemed to have been lost in 1870. 

"Demoralization set in. After the defeats on the Rhine we 
learned of the defeats around Metz, where Bazaine commanded 
— Bazaine, who returned from Mexico in disgrace, but for 
whom public opinion had demanded the command which until 
then the Empire had refused him. Political passions broke 
loose. Emile Olivier and his Ministry were turned out. His 
successor, Palikaos, did not last very long, although his first 
measures seemed rational — general armament, mobilization at 
Paris, of all the fire departments of France, and finally the 
orders to MacMahon to retreat upon Paris to defend the cap- 
ital. Politics, however, interfered and a counter order was sent 
to MacMahon. The result was that Paris was left open to the 
Prussians and, what is worse, Paris was abandoned to itself and 
to the revolutionists. The torrent was let loose. 



*^f 



"How well I remember the 3d day of September, 1870. 
Wild rumors were afloat — that the army of Prince Frederic 
Charles had been defeated; that MacMahon was wounded; 
that the Emperor was a prisoner. We knew nothing, but we 
feared everything. I was looking for news that night when near 
the Madeleine I met two well-known diplomats. They knew all 
the truth of the disaster and that the Chamber of Deputies had 
suddenly been called to meet. They asked me to go there with 
them. When we arrived it was midnight, and never shall I 
forget that scene. A frozen silence possessed the House when 
Gen. Palikao mounted to the Tribune, and with tears in his 
voice announced the awful facts — Bazailles burnt, the army 
seeking refuge in the trenches of Sedan, MacMahon woimded, 



86 The Soul of Paris 

the useless struggle stopped by order of the Emperor, the sur- 
render of Napoleon the Third, a prisoner, after having vainly 
sought death on tlie battle field, two hundred cannons and all 
our eagles in the hands of the victor. What a scene it was! 

"Jules Fevre's proposition to admit defeat was unanimously 
rejected. In coming out of this historic session my friend Baron 
Bayens remarked to me: 

" 'If Paris does not learn to-morrow when it wakes up that 
forty arrests were made to-night we will have a revolution.' 

"Well, Paris woke up on that 4th of September to find a day 
of ideal weather. No arrests had been made. The Empress 
was Regent. She believed in Gen. Trochu, the military Gov- 
ernor, and in the army. Alas! poor soul, so soon abandoned! 
It was her first step toward the Calvary which she had to climb 
to the summit. However, the news traveled quickly through- 
out Paris — excitement everywhere — raging indignation here; 
violent explosions there. The 'quarters' began to come down to 
the centre of the city. Parliament reassembled at noon. Thiers 
was swept aside. Gambetla dominated the situation. With his 
burning eloquence he appealed to the masses, who responded 
in force and followed him triumphantly to the Hotel de Ville. 
On the way he met Gen. Trochu, and soon we had the amazing 
spectacle of the soldier Catholic and Breton, and the Tribune 
revolutionary and atheist, seated at the same table organizing a 
temporary government! 

■^y ^^7 ^^z 

"The Empire was finished — abandoned by its own troops. 
I walked all over Paris that day of September the 4th. I saw 



The Soul of Paris 87 

the imperial flag removed from the Tuileries when the Empress, 
persuaded by some faithful friends, consented at last to abandon 
the palace to the triumphant populace. I saw my friend Sardou 
enter the palace after having said to me in his splendid way, 
'I want to be one of the first to protect her if she wants to get 
away.' I saw brave Gen. Mellinet leave the Tuileries at the 
head of the last battalions to remain faithful, and I saw the 
National Guards installed in their place. I saw people tearing 
down the imperial coat-of-arm-s, destroying the eagles, even 
smashing the crowned letters "N" in their wild rage to destroy 
everything that could recall the idol of the day before." 

i^S ^fS JS) 

Here Monsieur Meyer paused. The limit of my interview 
had been reached. The foreman of his composing room was 
awaiting him and I understood the necessities of the occasion. 
I think it is an interesting picture that he painted for me, and 
I repeat it to you as well as my memory permits. 

"Such scenes I am quite sure," he remarked as he accom- 
panied me politely to the door, "such scenes will not be re- 
peated in 1914. And isn't Paris delightful just now? Stay 
with us as long as you can. They say I am one of the 'last 
Parisians.' Be one of the 'last Americans!' " 



88 The Soul of Paris 




XIII. 

Gustave Herve, Socialist Editor, One of France's Finest Souls 
— Has Been Eleven Times in Jail for His Attacks on 
Militarism — ''This War a War to End Wars," He Sa^s. 

Paris, Saturday, Sept. 12, 1914. 

N my last letter I told you of my visit to the delight- 
fully comfortable editorial sanctum of M. Arthur 
Meyer, editor of the Royalist organ Le Gaulois, 
whom the panic occasioned by the approach of the 
Germans failed to drive away from Paris. This 
morning I thought of another famous personality 
in Paris journalism who I noticed was not less faithful to his 
clients — a man who represents the very opposite pole of the 
profession — Gustave Herve, the great Socialist leader, the man 
who has served in all eleven years imprisonment for his editorial 
utterances, the friend of the murdered Jaures, the pacifist of 
pacifists, the propagandist of "Internationalism," the merciless 
assailant of egoistic capitalism, the editor of La Guerre Sociale. 
A far cry it is from Meyer to Herve, from Le Gaulois to La 
Guerre Sociale! But it is contrast that gives zest to life. 

Five o'clock is usually the best time to find a Paris editor. 
So about that hour I started for the office of La Guerre Sociale. 
It is quite out of the area of the other Paris newspapers, but 
really just where it should be. To reach it you go east on the 
Grands Boulevards until you reach the Porte St. Denis. Then 
you turn up a street which to-day was crowded with working 
people — nearly all women — -patronizing hundreds of fruit and 



The Soul of Paris 89 

vegetable pushcarts. It looked just like Tenth avenue in New 
York looks on Saturday nights when "Paddy's Market" is in 
full blast. Two blocks north on this street, Rue du Faubourg 
St. Denis, is No. 56. There was nothing to suggest a news- 
paper office, but pushing through the marketers I entered a 
courtyard and learned that the office of La Guerre Sociale was 
in the rear of this three hundred years old building on the third 
floor back. 

Well, I reached it and found myself in a room in which 
about a dozen men, young and old, were gathered around a big 
table, seated or standing, all engaged in lively conversation. 
Two or three who evidently had just arrived from their regi- 
ments were in uniform. All were members of the editorial staff. 
I quickly explained my mission, was received with the greatest 
cordiality, and at once a short, broad-shouldered, deep-chested 
man of about forty-five years of age, with a line head of hair, 
just slightly touched with gray, a mustache and Gallic imperial, 
advanced, grasped me by the hand warmly, and said: 

"I am Herve! Delighted to talk with an American! Come 
to my little den and have a chat." 

M. Herve is a Breton — that is to say, a Celt. Now, if I 
confess that I, too, am a Celt you will surmise that in just two 
minutes we understood each other perfectly! Nearly an hour 
I spent with him. He interviewed me more than I did him. 
He was greedy for information about things American. I hope 
I didn't mislead him. 

"Pardon this shocking office," said he at the outset, with 
Celtic candor; "but you know I've been in jail so much that it 
vv^as impossible to get an office anywhere else than in this out-of- 
the-way place. So many men who own property in Paris re- 



90 The Soul of Paris 

gard me as too dangerous a character to live under their roofs." 
Then we attacked the question of the hour — war — and his 
attitude as a hfelong pacifist. 

"Nothing illogical about my position," said he; "I have 
been fightmg for peace for years and years — fighting with my 
voice and my pen and going to jail again and again because 
I've dared to do so. "vl^ell, what are the Allies doing to-day? 
Precisely what I have been doing — fighting for peace! Fight- 
ing to destroy once and forever the things that must be destroyed 
to insure peace — militarism and imperialism! From our point 
of view this is one of the few just occasions for taking up arms 
of which history has knowledge, and we French Socialists, we 
pacifists, are pouring out our blood for the cause of human 
liberty as freely as any of our brother Frenchmen. No matter 
what m.ight happen, I can assure you that there will be no repe- 
tition in Paris of the scenes of the Commune of 1871. Make 
your American friends understand that!" 

tj^ tj^ „^7 

"But there is Russia," I remarked. "You have been most 
unsparing in your attacks on Russia and the Czar." 

M. Herve's eyes glowed. Putting his hand on my shoulder, 
he replied 

"Russia has fallen in line! That is the glorious fact of the 
day! Russia is marching with the great army of humanita- 
rianism! And just here let me tell you a bit of recent history 
which may interest you Americans: 

"When the war broke out I went to see my friend the Prime 
Minister, Monsieur Viviani. I assured him that all my influ- 
ence with my party would be with the cause of France; that 
the Socialists could be counted upon to a man, as we felt we 
were not fighting the German people, but fighting to help free 



The Soul of Paris 91 

them from the slavery to which mihtarism and imperialism had 
subjected them." 

" 'But,' said I to Viviani, 'we don't feel very comfortable 
about our ally, Russia. We would like to see her do something 
to show that she was waking up. She must show that she is 
prepared to do her share in the Cause of Humanity. Let her 
begin by freeing Poland ! You know how close Poland always 
has been to France. Poland should have her nationality re- 
stored. Can't something be done? Talk to the Russian 
Ambassador.' 

"Perhaps my suggestion may have had some effect," con- 
tinued M. Herve; "at all events not so very long after Viviani 
sent for me and told me that the Czar had decided to recreate 
a Polish nation. 

"Good!" said I; "good for a beginning!" 

" 'What more would you suggest?' inquired Viviani. 

" 'Finland must have a constitution,' said I. 'Our old 
friends exiled in Siberia, like Grandmother Catherine Bre- 
kowskaia — the Louise Michel of Russia — must be pardoned. 
And, above all, the Jews of Russia must be granted equal rights 
with any and every other Russian subject.' 

"Viviani was impressed. He agreed with me, promised to 
use all his influence in this direction as Prime Minister. Not 
content with that, I sought M. Briand, the Minister of Justice 
— Briand who was many times my lawyer, but with whom my 
old relations were severed when he abandoned our party. I 
forgot all that and sought reconciliation with him in the cause 
of the liberty of the Russian Jews. 

"Recently Briand came to Paris from Bordeaux. He called 
me at the 'phone. He told me it was all right — that the rumors 
were justified — that the Czar had granted equal rights to the 

J»» 
ews. 



92 The Soul of Paris 

M. Herve glowed with enthusiasm as he made the statement. 

"Can you not excuse my emotion," said he, "when I tell 
you I feel that I, Herve, had something to do with accomplish- 
ing this wonderful achievement? Now our consciences are 
clear. We French Socialists, Pacifists, uncompromising lovers 
of liberty and our fellow men, can without a blush march side 
by side with the soldiers of the Czar! 

"Ah! my friend," continued M. Herve, "awful as is the 
war the result will be untold blessings to humanity. The world 
is in labor. A new world is being born — a new world that will 
be better and finer than its parent — a world free from 
militarism, which is only the bloody caricature of the national 
defense of the people by the people! Hundreds of thousands 
of men who die gloriously on the battlefield have for a supreme 
consolation only two ideas — it is the last war; this war will 
destroy war." 

^^r ^9^ ^©^ 

You see that M. Herve is a splendid idealist. But he is not 
merely a dreamer. He is not an academic humanitarian. He 
is not a dilettante "internationalist." You know when the war 
broke out there were hundreds and hundreds of honest Germans 
earning a living in Paris in a perfectly honest way. It was not 
very comfortable for them the first few days. But M. Herve 
was equal to the occasion. He announced in La Guerre Sociale 
that if any decent German workingman wanted protection he, 
Herve, would offer his services. 

"You should have seen the street in front of this office," he 
told me with a pardonable delight. "They came by the hun- 
dreds, and after informing myself as to their character and busi- 
ness I would take them to the Commissaire de Police and secure 
them permission to remain, standing sponsor for their good be- 



The Soul of Paris 93 

havior. Some of them were accused of being spies. All non- 
sense! I busied myself to prove to the contrary, and I got 
dozens of them out of this trouble. One of our neighbors was 
the wife of a German officer. He hurried off to join his regi- 
ment. She was compelled to remain in Paris with her little 
daughter of five years of age. I took her to my own home and 
there she and her little daughter are to-day, safe and sound. 
If you want to see the spirit of internationalism exemplified you 
should see me with my own little niece, the daughter of my 
brother, a captain of artillery, now at the frontier, on one of my 
shoulders, and the little daughter of the German officer on the 
other!" 

Whether you accept M. Herve's socialistic doctrines or not, 
I'm sure no one can pass an hour with him as I did without 
being convinced of his honesty and moved by his earnest elo- 
quence and large humanity. As I was leaving he presented me 
with one of his books. It is entitled "My Crimes: Or Eleven 
Years of Prison for Offenses of Journalism." The last chapter 
consists of an address which he made to the jury which con- 
victed him in January, 1912. He closes thus: 

"I belong to the International Socialist party, which is the 
party of the oppressed of all races and of all colors. We may 
be weak as yet — ^we are so weak that for a newspaper article 
you can throw us into jail ; but in spite of our feebleness we still 
have enough strength to extend, from the depths of our jails, a 
hand to all those you are crushing, to all those you are grind- 
ing to powder and to spit in the face of those who are mas- 
sacring them! Just now in his eloquent peroration the Advo-. 
cate-General leaned toward you and said: 'Jurors of France, I 
hear beating in your breasts the heart of France!' I, too, as I 



94 The Soul of Paris 

finish, lean toward and cry to you: 'Jurors of France, I would 
that I might hear beating in your breasts the heart of 
Humanity.* " 

One word more about M. Herve: He is a poHtician who 
never would accept an office. And the reason why he is not 
"at the front" with his brother, the artillery officer, is that he 
is so near-sighted that he can't read a newspaper without the 
aid of the strongest magnifying glass. He now uses the one I 
save him as a souvenir. 



The Soul of Paris 95 




XIV. 

Paris On Its Knees — Wonderful Religious Demonstration at 
the Cathedral of Notre Dame — Praying for France — 
One of the Most Impressive Parisian Events of Wartime. 

Paris, Sunday Evening, Sept, 13, 1914. 

NOTRE DAME, Paris priera aujourd'hui pour 

la France" — 

"At Notre Dame, Paris will pray to-day for 

France." 

I read this announcement while I was taking 

my morning coffee in the Hotel des Tuileries, 
situated on the little side street named Sainte Hyacinthe, into 
which I moved yesterday after my favorite hotel, the Hotel de 
Calais in the Rue des Capucines, had closed its doors. I was 
the last guest, and I really think the Italian-American manager, 
Signor Nasi, regretted turning me out. However, with the 
assistance of my little Paris gamin, my Gavroche Leon Dieux, 
I speedily packed my effects and carted them to the Hotel des 
Tuileries, which is around the corner from the Marche de St. 
Honore (St. Honore's Market), the Fire Department Com- 
pany's headquarters and the local Police Commissioner, 
Monsieur Bleynie, whose inspectors are my good friends. 

During the last few days we have had quite a change of 
weather. The sunshine has been very fitful. At times it has 
been raining and very cold. (I saw a bargain in overcoats, of 
which I think I shall take advantage to-morrow.) 



96 The Soul of Paris 

But I am digressing shamefully. Let me revert to the sub- 
ject of my first paragraph. The son of a Methodist preacher 
of Irish birth and Huguenot blood can never become entirely 
unreligious. I had seen the Paris of the war of 1914 in so 
many phases that I could not resist the desire to see it express 
itself religiously and spiritually. Three o'clock was the hour 
of the service at the Cathedral of Notre Dame. Oh, that 
Cathedral! Don't you love it? Have you not lost yourself in 
rapture as you gazed upon its Gothic beauty? Haven't you 
seen it at night when the full moon glowed from behind its 
towers and illuminated the great square — the Parvis de Notre 
Dame — the square that evokes memories of Victor Hugo's 
Esmeralda — the square on which the gargoyles have grinned 
for centuries, and, let us hope, will grin for centuries to come? 
My little horse cab was taking me across one of the bridges 
when I was astonished to see an unusual multitude of people all 
movmg in the same direction as I. 

"What in the world is going on?" said I to my cocher. 
"Where are all these people coming from and where are they 



gomg 



y. 



"Why, monsieur, they are coming from all over the city and 
they are going to the Cathedral — just as you are!" he replied, a 
bit surprised. 

Nine-tenths of them were women — women of every walk in 
life. When I reached the square it was literally packed. There 
must have been fifty or sixty thousand people there, and all 
round the Cathedral and in every street leading to it there were 
thousands and thousands more. It was with the greatest diffi- 
culty that I succeeded in worming my way into this compact 
multitude of human beings, but finally by a bit of persuasion 
and explanation that I was an American heretic I succeeded, 
through the kind offices of a charming young French priest, in 
getting into the Cathedral through the sacristy. 



The Soul of Paris 97 

By that time the services had begun. The church was filled 
to overflowing. Even the cloisters were crowded with worship- 
pers. I imagine there must have been more than ten thousand 
people in the Cathedral. In the choir alone there were fifteen 
hundred clergymen. Non-Catholic Huguenot Irish-American as 
I am, it v/as one of the most impressive occasions of my life. 
Here was Paris, that had just heard the most encouraging news 
of the war — in fact, the only encouraging news — the news so 
carefully emitted by the Government — that the English and 
French were forcing back little by little the German invaders — 
Paris, which for weeks had maintained its calm composure 
while everything seemed to promise the worst, had preserved 
a truly marvelous sangfroid in the presence of a situation which 
seemed like a turning point in the struggle — here was Paris on 
its knees in prayer! 

The preliminary service over, the organ pealed forth and 
ten thousand voices joined in singing the cantique, the words 
of which I was told were : 

"Pitie mon Dieu, c'est pour Notre Patrie. 

Sauvez, sauvez la France, au nom du Sacre Cceur." 

One must have a heart of stone to be untouched with emotion 
on such occasions as this. Tears came to my eyes as the hymn 
swelled out. I had the same feeling that I had years and 
years ago when at an Ocean Grove camp meeting I heard a 
congregation of six thousand earnest Methodists singing 

"Rock of Ages, cleft for me. 
Let me hide myself in thee!" 

Perhaps my sophisticated readers will smile at this, but there 
are moments in life when we experience emotions that stir the 



98 The Soul of Paris 

very depths of our mysterious beings. I leave it to the pro- 
fessional psychologists to analyze and explain such phenomena. 
This is a human document and I am simply recording in all 
honesty my feelings of to-day. Every woman, man and child 
in Notre Dame this afternoon was thinking of the loved ones 
who were jeopardizing their lives on the battlefield in behalf of 
liberty and the Fatherland. Is it strange that even an outsider 
like myself should feel a responsive tremor in his soul of souls? 
Presently there was a movement within the choir. Cardinal 
Amette, who had just returned from helping elect the new 
Pope, was ascending the pulpit. An impressive figure he was 
in his gorgeous red robes. Perfect silence prevailed as he began 
his discourse. I could only catch broken phrases, but I could 
realize that it was a discourse both spiritual and patriotic. His 
sentences were crisp. His voice was the voice of a real orator. 
His gestures were earnest and graceful. He spoke with authority 
and sincerity. He recalled to me another great pulpit orator 
that I had heard years ago — Archbishop Ryan of Philadelphia. 

"^Bf* ^tr* ^Bf 

t^f m^/ »,rs? 

The sermon finished, the procession formed. It was in honor 
of the feast of the day, the Nativity of the Virgin. A sweet- 
faced young girl, all clad in white, bore the banner at its head. 
Then came the famous silver statue of the Madonna and Child 
given to the cathedral by Charles the IX. ; the relics of Ste. 
Genevieve, patron saint of Paris; the silver head of St. Denis, 
who brought Christianity to the pagan city, and a number of 
other sacred relics which had been brought to Notre Dame for 
the occasion from the several churches which are their cus- 
todians. The procession wound around the church, while the 
great organ again pealed forth and ten thousand voices chanted 



The Soul of Paris 99 

in unity the Credo, It was then that I managed to get out of 
the church through a side door and round to the square in front. 
The three big doors were wide open. The crowd was even 
greater than ever. The hymn, which flowed through the open 
portals, was taken up by the thousands awaiting without. Very 
soon the procession emerged from one of the three doors and 
passed between the iron grating and the facade of the cathedral, 
re-entering by the third door, as the law prohibits a religious 
procession taking place in a public street in France. 

When Cardinal Amette finally appeared a great shout arose: 
"Vive le Cardinal!" Handkerchiefs and hats were waved in 
the air. I would not have been surprised to have seen the 
statue of Charlemagne which stands on the side of the square 
suddenly come to life and wave its sword. A little stand had 
been improvised on the steps of the cathedral. Cardinal Amette 
could not let such an occasion go by without taking advantage 
of it. Mounting it, he addressed the vast gathering briefly. A 
nice young French reporter, who was near me, read me his notes 
and this is the substance of what the Cardinal said: 

"You are too numerous to permit my voice to be heard by 
you all, but at least my heart shall go out toward each and 
every one of you. This wonderful scene recalls to me that 
which unfolded itself before my eyes last week, when in the 
presence of the multitude assembled on the great square of St 
Peter's in Rome was proclaimed the election of the new Pope. 
The same faith lights up in your eyes; the same confidence is 
painted on your faces. I am going to give you the pontifical 
benediction. May it keep you faithful to God and to your 
country ! May it also preserve safe and sound those whom you 
love and who are now contending on the field of battle to pro- 
tect our firesides and our altars!" 



100 The Soul of Paris 

The great assembly sank to its knees as one person as the 
Cardinal, with magnificent gesture, made the sign of the cross. 
This done, the crowd within the church and without once more 
shouted thunderously, "Vive I'Eglise!" "Vive la France!" 
Then the Cardinal and the procession re-entered the cathedral, 
where the services in due time came to an end, after which the 
multitude slowly dissolved, while a friendly aeroplane hovered 
like a dove of peace over the sacred monument. 

As I was moving away whom should I meet on the bridge 
but M. Arthur Meyer. 

"There is a deep significance in to-day's event," said he. 
"It convinces me that France's mentality after the war will be 
mystic and military. It will be mystic because experience has 
just demonstrated the emptiness of the skeptical doctrines which 
certain philosophers have tried to impose upon it. These pro- 
fessor? of Doubt and Negation wished to substitute for the 
theory of noble action that of a dreamy dilettantism. Men who 
fight are, in the full force of the term and in the highest degree, 
men of action. And all action is creative. These men are 
destined to become the adversaries of those who represent a 
desiccating, a sterile negation." 

M. Arthur Meyer's remarks are well worth considering. 



The Soul of Paris 101 




XV. 



HoTV Paris Received the News of the Allies' First Real Victor}) 
— The Result of the Battle of the Marne Causes No 
Excitement — A Newspaper Mens War Breakfast. 

Paris, Wednesday, Sept. 16, 1914. 

ELL us just how Paris received the first real news of 

the first real French victory." 

Such is the request I find in a letter received 

from New York a few days ago. Well, Monday 

niorning the Parisians opened their newspapers 

and read: 
"The battle which has been . in progress for five days 
has resulted in an unqualified victory. Everywhere the 
enemy is abandoning large numbers of wounded and great 
quantities of munitions. Everywhere we are making prisoners. 
As we gain ground our troops are able to observe evidences of 
the intensity of the struggle and the great importance of the 
means employed by the Germans in their effort to check our 
advance. Resumption of the offensive on our part assured suc- 
cess. All of you, officers, sub-officers and soldiers, have re- 
sponded to my appeal. All of you have proved yourselves 
worthy of j'^our country." 

Such was the announcement of General-in-Chief Joffre to the 
army. No one doubted that the French and British had at last 
won a big battle. What happened in Paris? Old-timers tell 
me that if such an announcement had been published in 1870 
the city would have gone wild with excitement; every gas lamp 



102 The Soul of Paris 

would have been relit at night; every w^indow^ of every occu- 
pied house would have been illuminated; thousands and thou- 
sands of all sexes and ages would have been parading the 
streets into the small hours of the morning shouting themselves 
hoarse: "Vive la France! Vive I'Armee! A Berlin!" or 
singing the "Marseillaise" at the top of their voices. That, 
you must remember, was in the days of what Americans and 
English were accustomed to call "the crazy Frenchman." 

And now perhaps I must disappoint you; for the great out- 
burst of enthusiasm, the great popular emotional explosion upon 
the news of the first victory which my New York correspondent 
particularly asked me to describe, did not take place ! 

Not that there v/asn't a very perceptible change in the senti- 
mental barometer ! For as I took my morning stroll around by 
the little cigar shop, the little newsstands, the little two-cent 
coffee bars and down to the Cafe Richelieu, where the Parisian 
newspaper men who are still here gather for their grenadine 
syrup and siphon, I could see on the faces of all I met, I could 
note in the lively gait of the pedestrians, in the cordial way in 
which one shook hands with the other, that the Parisian heart 
had mounted, that a tense feeling of satisfaction, a renewed 
confidence in the allied armies, had taken possession of one and 
all. It was a sort of chastened joy. But the dominant senti- 
ment perhaps is best expressed in the simple remark of Madame 
Lefroy, the genial proprietress of the little zinc cafe in the Rue 
des Petits Champs near the Rue de la Paix, when she said: 

"Yes, monsieur, it is splendid, this victory; but we must 
keep cool; we must not get excited; for, remember, we are not 
yet out of the woods." 



The Soul of Paris 103 

As the afternoon progressed and I was seated at the half- 
deserted Cafe de la Paix sipping a cup of coffee, I observed 
that the boulevards were gradually growing more and more 
lively. Very soon there was an unusual activity. I had seen 
nothing like it for weeks and weeks. The crowd — for such it 
really had become — was a most quiet and self-possessed crowd, 
such a crowd as one will see ordinarily when the shops close at 
seven o'clock. My curiosity was aroused. Could it be that a 
German aeroplane had been sighted? That I could hardly 
believe, as we in Paris were under the impression that Uncle 
Sam tipped off the Kaiser some time ago as to the indiscretion 
of such exploits on the part of his enterprising aviators. So I 
did what all good reporters should do in such a case — I asked a 
policeman. 

"They are all expecting to see the German prisoners," he 
informed me, "but I am afraid they will be disappointed. A 
lot of them are being sent south. Several hundred, I hear, 
including a general who wears a monocle, and who, they say, 
had on his person a document signed by the Kaiser appointing 
him Assistant Governor of Paris. I do not know how true this 
is, but I do not think he could borrow much money up the 
street there at Morgan, Harjes & Co. on the Kaiser's signa- 
ture." 

You see, my French policeman friend (to whom I gave one 
of my favorite two-cent cigars) has a tolerable fair sense of 
humor. Incidentally I may remark that he would cut a very 
fine figure at the point in New York which corresponds with the 
corner of the Cafe de la Paix — Broadway and Forty-second 
street. 

^^^ ^^^ ^^ 

The German prisoners after all did not pass through Paris. 
The Assistant Governor of Paris that was to have been was not 



104 The Soul of Paris 

permitted to have a glass of Pilsener beer (what is left of it in 
Paris is now called "Bierre de la Meuse") at the "busted" 
Brasserie Viennoise. Military Governor Gallieni, in order to 
avoid any possible unseemly demonstration on the part of the 
rowdy element, arranged for the transportation of the prisoners 
by way of the suburbs. 

Apropos of this it gave me great pleasure to find in The 
Guerre Sociale this morning another splendid editorial signed by 
my friend Gustave Herve (Herve, the ideal of the working 
classes, the Socialist leader, who the day before had paid an 
eloquent tribute in his paper to Mrs. William K. Vanderbilt 
personally and the other brave American women who are de- 
voting themselves to the management of the American Red 
Cross Flospital at Neuilly), an editorial in which he denounced 
unsparingly any and every manifestation of enmity toward Ger- 
man prisoners of war. Let me quote a few passages from it: 

"What sort of education have we given our people that they 
should not yet know that prisoners of war are sacred in the 
eyes of every civilized people? Let the apaches shout their 
grossieretes as they gather around the guillotine! Let the wild 
Indians, the Peaux Rouges, gloat as they dance around the 
victim they have scalped! But for us, who even in the Middle 
Ages were known as 'la douce France' because of the refine- 
ment of our manners and of our civilization — for us to insult 
our prisoners is unbelievable in this country of the Rights of 
Man. The people that insult the prisoners collectively is a race 
of savages that is not worthy of victory ! Remember there are 
thousands of our brave soldiers prisoners in Germany. 

"How are they treated? 

"Who knows? Who can tell? 

"Remember, however, one is not necessarily a coward be- 
cause he has been made a prisoner. There are brave men in 
the German army as well as in ours, like that brave German 



The Soul of Paris 105 



soldier of whom we heard the other day who at the peril of his 
life rescued a wounded Frenchman and whose deed was a 
splendid act of humanity. Remember the words of the Holy 
Book, 'Thou shalt not vex nor oppress the stranger within thy 
gates, for ye yourselves have been strangers in the land of 

Egypt.' 

"If I were the Government I would paraphrase these sublime 
words of the Bible and I would post them on the walls of every 
commune in France: 

" 'Thou shalt not vex nor oppress the prisoners whom the 
fortunes of arms has placed within your power, for ye your- 
selves have been prisoners in Germany.' " 

Such is the doctrine of Humanity which is being inculcated 
in the minds of the working classes in Paris, the proletariat, the 
Communards of 1871. Do you wonder that I repeat again 
and again that this is a New France and that, victorious or 
defeated, nothing can ever destroy her spirit or her civilization? 

3y ^^^ j^ 

Soon twilight came along. The crowd that was waiting to 
see the prisoners learned that they were not coming to Paris. 
By eight o'clock the cafes were closed as usual, and at half- 
past nine the few restaurants still doing business bade goodnight 
to their clients. The big lights down the centre of the boule- 
vards were extinguished. The Champs Elysees was dark as a 
primeval forest. At half-past ten the boulevards were practi- 
cally deserted, and haFf an hour later Paris was fast asleep, 
undisturbed by disquieting dreams, assured of the present and 
confident of the future. 

I hope I have answered my New York correspondent who 
wanted to know how Paris received the first real news of the 
first real French victory. 



106 The Soul of Paris 

We had a quiet but cheerful Httle war breakfast yesterday 
at Hubin's unpretentious restaurant in the Rue Drouot, near 
The Figaro office. Nearly a score of American resident cor- 
respondents and visiting American newspaper men were on this 
occasion the guests of Otto H. Kahn, chairman, and of the 
other directors of the Metropolitan Opera Company. Several 
Parisian journalists who happened to be in the restaurant at the 
time were brought into camp and initiated into the spirit of 
"bonne camaraderie" of their American confreres. I take the 
liberty of alluding to this little affair because it gives me an 
opportunity of acknowledging publicly the thoughtfulness of the 
gentlemen who are at the head of the First Opera House of the 
World. I further emphasize this courtesy on their part because 
I happen to know of cases of worthy representatives of large 
American business concerns, faithful employees for years in 
Paris, who seem to have been entirely forgotten in this crisis 
by their employers or firms in America. I hope The Evening 
Sun will print this paragraph, for which I hold myself personally 
responsible; and I hope that it will be read by some of the 
highly respectable gentlemen whose eyes it is intended to reach 
and that they will be led to ponder their selfishness while they 
are passing the plate next Sunday in their several places of wor- 
ship. God have mercy on them! 



When twenty newspaper men are together for two hours at 
an appetizing breakfast table (for Paris has no better chef than 
f-Iubin's and the tariff is "mighty" reasonable) it goes without 
saying that a lot of professional secrets are bound to leak out. 
However, I don't tell tales out of school, and you know the 
old adage, "Dog does not eat dog." The funniest thing about 
it all was that I was the oldest man in the crowd! That secret 



The Soul of Paris 107 

I can tell, for it is my own. There's one other, however, that 
I am permitted to relate, and here it is: 

A few days ago several English and a few American news- 
paper writers and photographers got permission from the mili- 
tary authorities to make a trip to certain points near the battle- 
iield. They were not satisfied with the privilege they obtained, 
and had the hardihood to go beyond the forbidden lines a mile 
or two. Result: They were all arrested! Among them was a 
rather interesting journalistic personality, a man of about fifty- 
five, half French and half English, of really wide experience — 
a fine physical type, with slouch hat, mustache and goatee, 
quite suggestive of the Three Musketeers. Our "D'Artagnan," 
as he is popularly called, was quite put out by the affair and 
perhaps a little bit indignant. So that when he was brought 
into the presence of a very calm, quiet English officer of gentle 
speech he drew himself up proudly and, presenting his card,, 
with just a little bit of a flourish announced: 

"I sir, am So-and-so of the London Times!" 

The gentle-mannered British officer retained his composure 
admirably. His sangfroid was perfect. He never blinked an 
eyelash. He simply replied — oh, so gently, so sweetly: 

''I am Smith-Dorrien, general in command of this division, 
and I hope your employer. Lord Northcliffe (who owns the 
London Times), will compensate you handsomely for your 
professional enterprise and journalistic zeal; for I am going to 
send you and the rest of your friends as prisoners to Tours for 
the rest of this war." 

D'Artagnan and his fellow prisoners were allowed five 
hours' release on parole to settle up their affairs in Paris prior 
to taking the train for their villegiature at Tours (which, by 
the way, is at present the popular residence of those members 
of Paris society who fled so precipitously when they thought 
that the Germans were coming in). And it was during that 



108 The Soul of Paris 

furlough that I met him with some of my confreres at the Cafe 
Napolitain. I did not know anything about his mishap, but 
out of respect for a distinguished representative of the "London 
Thunderer" I invited him to have a drink. 

"No! no! my boy! No! no !" said he with a fine gesture. 
"This is at my expense," adding in a mysterious whisper, "This 
is my last day in Paris for some time to come; I can't tell you 
why, because I am on parole. S'sh I Nobody can pay for this 
drink but me!" 

I was much impressed. I was flattered. I was mystified. 
But I let him pay for the drink. It v/as not until yesterday at 
breakfast that the truth came out. I don't know whom the 
joke was on. Perhaps it was on me! 



The Soul of Paris 109 



XVI. 

Bombardment of the Cathedral of Rheims Arouses a Feeling of 
Unparalleled Indignation — Movements of NeVDspapers — 
Another IV ell- Authenticated "Atrocity" — To Restore 
Louvain. 

Paris. Sunday. Sept. 20, 1914. 

T last, after seven weeks of war, during which the 
Parisian populace from the Place de I'Opera to 
the fortifications, the Parisian populace of every 
walk in life has preserved its sangfroid in a manner 
cO compel the admiration of the civilized world — 
alter seven weeks of bloodshed, of carnage; seven 
weeks in which thousands and thousands of children have be- 
come orphans, and thousands and thousands of wives have be- 
come widows, the Paris populace has given expression to a sen- 
timent of horror and indignation that my feeble power of utter- 
ance is unable adequately to describe. 

I opened my morning papers to-day and learned witli stupe- 
faction that the beautiful Cathedral of Rheims, that wonderful 
monument of Gothic architectural art, one of the finest master- 
pieces of great but unknown artists of the Middle Ages; the 
sacred edifice built upon the site of the church where St. Remy 
baptized the pagan King Clovis; the cathedral which was the 
custodian of the standard of Jeanne d'Arc, crowded with gems 
of sculpture, paintings, tapestries; unsurpassed by anything in 
France for the exquisite beauty of its stained glass windows — 
the Cathedral of Rheims, which had escaped the ravages of 




no The Soul of Paris 

six hundred years of warfare, which in itself symbolized all 
that is finest in the artistic instinct, in the spiritual aspiration of 
France, at last had been wantonly, mercilessly, brutally bom- 
barded and damaged to an extent as yet incalculable. 

The news stunned me. I could hardly believe I was read- 
ing a twentieth century newspaper. Was I dreaming? Or 
was I back in my college days reading in Livy about the sack 
of Rome centuries before Christ by the barbarians of the north? 

Alas ! my friends, it was no dream. It is all too true. And 
when I went out to take my morning walk around my "quarter" 
and along the boulevards I saw the evidences of an excitement 
such as had not been seen since the opening day of the mobiliza- 
tion seven weeks ago. I beg my readers to believe that this is 
not reportorial "flubdub." I am not writing "to fill space." I 
am telling you the plain truth. The reported bombardment of the 
Cathedral of Rheims has horrified the French mind more than 
all the other disasters suffered by the French people since this 
damnable war began. Nothing else is talked of where two or 
three or more are gathered together. Coming as it does after 
the destruction of Louvain and Malines, is it strange that every 
one here, American and English as well as French, is of the 
opinion that had the Germans besieged Paris it would have 
been the end of the Louvre, the Invalides, Notre Dame, 
Pantheon, the Sacre-Coeur, the Sainte-Chapelle and every other 
historic monument in this beautiful city which belong not alone 
to France, but the human race? 

I abstain from indulging in editorial comment. I am only 
trying to reflect the Parisian mind in this truly sad hour. 



For eight days what a Parisian confrere terms the "epic battle 
of the Aisne" has been under way. Yet all that we in Paris 



The Soul of Paris 1 1 1 

really know about it is, according to the latest laconic com- 
munique, that the Allies have "slowly and continually gained 
ground without really having dislodged the Germans from the 
positions which they occupy." Every one feels that it is a 
terribly bloody conflict; that if the Allies suffer defeat — which 
I assure you is not expected in Paris — it would mean a renewal 
of the advance of the Germans toward this city and after all a 
possible investment. 

However, as I said, the spirit of the population as regards 
the final outcome is as calm and confident as ever. Everybody 
who remains in Paris (and, by the way, there are quite a num- 
ber of erstwhile "fugitives" who have quietly slipped back to 
their haunts on the boulevards) feels that everybody else is his 
personal friend. 

Paris is like a great big family. Everybody talks to every- 
body else — in the tram cars, in the cafes, in the restaurants, at 
the street corners, at the newsstands, at the cigar shops. There 
is not the slightest class distinction. Paris offers a perfect 
example of a social democracy, and in that respect for me it is 
specially delightful. 

Yesterday morning the Continental edition of the London 
Daily Mail (of which my amiable and able friend, Mr. Som- 
merville Story, is managing editor), returned to Paris at the 
order of its proprietor. Lord Northcliffe (Arthur Harms- 
worth) from Bordeaux, where it went with the Government. 
At the same time James Gordon Bennett reduced the price of 
the Paris edition of the New York Herald — ^which did not go 
to Bordeaux, but stayed right here with Mr. Bennett — to two 
cents after having previously (owing to the fear of a raw paper 
famine) raised it from three to five. Meanwhile a modest litde 
sheet called the Paris Daily Post, which was started after the- 
departure of The Mail to Bordeaux by an English-French 
lawyer, Albert Meyer, has succeeded in reaching a circulation 



1 1 2 The Soul of Paris 

of five hundred and eighty-nine after one week's pubhcation ! 

In passing I must say that I had the pleasure of a brief chat 
vAth Mr. Bennett the other day, and I am sure it will please his 
personal friends in New York as well as all the members of the 
New York Herald staff over there to know that the "Commo- 
dore" looks like a young man of fifty and was in the very best 
of spirits. He received me with the gracious dignity of an 
unaffected man of the world. I am not a medical expert, but if 
I were an insurance agent I should consider Mr. Bennett a 
"mighty good gamble." Take my word for it, unless the Ger- 
mans capture him he is going to be "Boss" of the New York 
Herald for many years to come! 

^©^ >/s# ^^ 

No, I have not been out to the firing line. I have not even 
been out to see a battlefield. What's the use? I hear enough 
about both, and I am sure the live cable news sent day by day 
tells The Evening Sun's readers all they want to know about 
such things. 

Doubtless the American papers have been full of stories of 
atrocities. I have only told you of one. Let me tell you of 
another : 

Many Americans have stopped at the homelike "pension" of 
dear old Mme. Doucerain, 1 2 Rue Caumartin. For several 
years my American friends, Mr. and Mrs. Schaefer, have also 
lived there. Mr. Schaefer represents a large American business 
concern in Paris. Mme. Schaefer knows as much about the 
shops of Paris, how and where to buy, as any other American 
permanent resident of my acquaintance. I met Mrs. Schaefer 
the day before yesterday. 

"I have something awful to tell you," said she. "You know 
Mme. X , who lives in the apartment above Mme. Dou- 



The Soul of Paris 1 1 3 

cerain. Her husband went to the front. The other day she 
got word that he was wounded and was at the Val de Grace 
Hospital. She went there and was met by the doctor. 

" 'Is he dying? Is he dead?' she asked. 

" *No, my dear madam,' he repHed; 'perhaps he had better 
be dead. You must have courage if you want to see him.' 

"Mr. X had been shot in the thigh. When his wife 

saw him he had both his ears cut off and his tongue cut out." 

I have no comment to make. None is needed. 

^BS" '^B^ ''SW 

./S? «/S7 «^y 

My good friend, Gustave Herve, editor of The Guerre 
Sociale, has a splendid idea in his leading editorial this morning, 
devoted principally to the destruction of the Cathedral of 
Rheims. He dreamed of a reconstructed, restored Louvain! 
It is to be a Louvain old, yet new — a Louvain to the restora- 
tion of which every civilized country in the world (including, 
as he said, the future republic of Germany) will contribute. 
Even the redskins of the Rockies and the negroes of Soudan will 
be invited to send their contributions. 

Every institution of learning the wide world over will be 
asked to aid in the re-equipment of the university of Louvain 
and its library, while the famous art galleries of every city and 
nation will, stimulated by a noble rivalry, offer a worthy master- 
piece to a museum which shall arise from the cinders of the old. 

"In this university," adds Mr. Herve, "the chair of inter- 
national law will be occupied in perpetuity by a Belgian jurist 
or in his absence by an English lawyer. And, each year, until 
the end of time this professor will begin his course by a lecture 
on the subject "International Law and Respect for Chiffons 
de Papier." If such a dream as Mr. Herve's should be realized 



114 The Soul of Paris 

— and why should it not? — what an intellectual and artistic 
Mecca the New Louvain will become! What an impressive 
symbol it will be of the triumph of mind over matter, of 
idealism over materialism! 

,Mi Z^ J^ 

There are several hundred American-owned automobiles 
here left in storage with the agents of a large American bank- 
ing and transportation concern. The French Government has 
been commandeering them as it needed them. The official who 
selects them never fails to ask the name of the owner. Well, 
if it happens to be that of an American with a German name 
the machine usually is taken in short order. I am credibly 
informed, however, that machines belonging to men with good 
old American names like Riley, Sullivan, OTlaherty, Regan, 
Callaghan and Flannigan are perfectly safe! 



The Soul of Paris 1 1 5 



XVII. 

American War Hospital at Neuilly a Model Institution — 
Splendid Work Being Done There — Public Schools 
Reopen — Spirit of the English Soldiers. 

Paris, Tuesday, Sept. 22, 1914. 

TOOK a spin out to Neuilly this afternoon to see 
how things were getting along at the American 
"Ambulance" (as the French call an improvised 
hospital), which has been established in the splen- 
did new Pasteur High School in that delightful 
suburb of Paris. It has been the first bright cheer- 
ful day from the weather standpoint that we have had for a 
week. For days past we have had nothing but rain, rain, rain ! 
1 he weather truly has been most depressing and the thought 
of the poor devils in the trenches — Germans as well as French 
and English — has been such as to sadden one's heart. To- 
day, however, the sun has come out and given a glow of warmth 
to the crisp autumn air. Paris is truly beautiful now and 
as I wheeled up the Champs Elysees, passed the Arc de Tri- 
omphe and down the Avenue de la Grande Armee to the Porte 
Maillot, which leads to Neuilly, I had really a delightful feel- 
ing of exhilaration. I met so few taxis and autos and cabs that 
I had no fear in putting on a full head of steam. Paris at 
present is the bicyclist's paradise. 

When I reached the Pasteur High School building, which 
covers a whole city block, I was astonished to find the street 




116 The Soul of Paris 

in front of it crowded with thousands of working people and 
middle-class men and women. 

"What's going on?" I said to the policeman whom I found 
at the entrance gate. And he answered: 

"Nothing unusual sir; this is the way it is every day. Sim- 
ply the curiosity of our people excited by the activity of the 
good Americans who have equipped tliis institution as an am- 
bulance. They want to see the American ladies and doctors 
going in and out, and watch the wounded soldiers being brought 
in. From all I can understand it's a very fine hospital and we 
French people are very proud to have these Americans do such 
a noble work here." 

Then I pulled a package of two-cent cigars out of my pocket 
and asked him to have one. 

"Non, Monsieur! Non, Monsieur! Merci!" he replied. 

"Why, don't you smoke?" 

"Oh, yes, I smoke," was his response, "but I would much 
rather you would take those cigars inside and give them to the 
wounded soldiers; they need them more than I do." 

Everything was moving in typical American style at the Am- 
bulance. It is almost full of wounded soldiers, principally 
English. Dr. Dubouchet, who is an American with a French 
name, is the surgeon in chief. He "doctored" me once and I 
know him. He is a splendid man and an honor to his profes- 
sion. He knows his business. With Dr. Dubouchet doing 
noble work is Dr. Joseph Blake of New York. Mrs. W. K. 
Vanderbilt, Sr., is one of the active spirits of the institution and 
is devoting herself from eight to ten hours a day to the service, 
winning the love and respect of every one with whom she comes 
in contact. It is a magnificent work that this American Ambu- 
lance is doing and every dollar contributed toward it is well 
spent. 



The Soul of Paris 1 1 7 

I think I have told you that I have not been to a battlefield 
yet. Anybody can go to a battlefield after the fighting is over. 
So far I have not had the heart to do so. An auto taxi chauf- 
feur with whom I took a ride yesterday told me that he had 
been down to Meaux with about two hundred other taxis and 
automobiles laden with Paris firemen — "pompiers," as they call 
them here. They were sent to dispose of the dead. 

"I must have seen five or six thousand corpses," said he. 
"It was a most ghastly sight — enough to give you the horrors. 
It seemed to me that more than two-thirds of them were Ger- 
mans. The firemen poured petrol over bodies, set fire to them 
and let them burn up. This is the only way to dispose of 
them. Everything around the country was destroyed. There 
was hardly a house or a tree standing." 

Suppose I had gone out there myself I could not have told 
you anything more about that battlefield than this taxi chauf- 
feur told me in those few words. 

I met a yoimg French officer the other day at a little res- 
taurant, where I had luncheon, who was having a fortnight off 
to recover from a slight wound. He had been close to the 
English troops for weeks, and as he spoke English quite flu- 
ently he had made many personal friends among them. 

"They are a splendid lot of fellows," said he, "and their 
attitude toward the war impressed us Frenchmen very much. 
When they started out they were dominated entirely by the 
sporting spirit. It was like a big game to them, and they were 
in it to win, just as though they were a visiting cricket team or 
a football team or a tennis team. Each of them seemed to 'be 
more of a good "sport" than a good soldier. In the last week 
or so, however, I find that the spirit of my English friends has 



1 1 8 The Soul of Paris 

undergone a complete change. With them this war is no longer 
sport. As one of them remarked, 'Play days are over and 
now we are out for blood ! ' And I think that that is the spirit 
of every individual in the British army in France to-day." 

^y JS/ ^& 

New York's public school boys and girls will be interested 
to know that in spite of this war and the proximity of the Ger- 
mans, the public schools of Paris reopened yesterday as usual 
for the fall and winter. It will be a little harder work for the 
teachers, for all the younger male instructors are facing the in- 
vader. But the proportion of women teachers is quite large, 
so that the course of public instruction may proceed fairly nor- 
mally. All the boys who have just reached the age of twenty, 
however, have been called to the colors. They belong to what 
is called the "Class of 1914." If it were not a state of war 
these young chaps would not have been required to begin their 
service until November. Understand that this is the first year 
that the new law requiring a three years' instead of two years' 
military service has gone into effect. Any one familiar with 
the story of recent French politics will recall the bitter fight in 
Parliament over this three years' service question. 

My gamin friend, Leon Dieux, who is only eighteen and 
one-half years of age, knows all about these things. By the 
way, he was born in Rheims and baptised in the Cathedral of 
which only the ruins remain to-day. He is very much dis- 
tressed because he fears that he will never be able to get the 
certificate of his birth which is necessary to secure a legitimate 
marriage in France. I have tried to comfort him by telling him 



The Soul of Paris 1 1 9 

that if he comes to America he can get married perfectly legiti- 
mately by a Jersey justice of the peace in Hoboken. 

"Nearly all the young fellows of twenty that I know are 
now wearing the uniform," said Leon. "Some of them have 
gone to Versailles, Orleans or Rouen ; some to Nancy and some 
are right here in Paris at the Military School. They have 
taken the place of the boys who began last year and who have 
now gone to the war. The Government is training them. They 
march, they learn to carry and use the gun, and the whole day 
long they do exercises in the barracks. If there is need of 
them in a month or so after this military training they will be 
sent to re-enforce the armies at the battle. 

"The boys of nineteen years of age already have been no- 
tified by the Government that they may be called to replace 
their elders if necessary v/ithin a month and they are devoting 
all their spare tinie from their studies to physical exercises and 
military training. You know all the young French boys (even 
like me, a common ordinary working boy) like out-of-door 
sport, and we read in the newspapers about the American boys 
of our age who enjoy themselves in the same way. I can only 
tell you that we poor boys up in the Chapelle quarters where 
Georges Carpentier, our great boxer, went to school, are in- 
tensely interested in football, boxing, swimming, long-distance 
running — and I think if we understood that game of baseball 
that you Americans are so much interested in and from what 
I hear is so lively and exciting, we French boys, if you'd give 
us a chance, ought to be able to show you how to play it after 
the war is over!" 

Perhaps you think that I am making this up "to fill space,' 
but I assure you this little Paris gamin Leon, who reads two 
or three different Paris papers every day, knows everything that 
the public can know about the military movement of the war, 
the diplomatic action of the Government and the smallest detail 



120 The Soul of Paris 

of the daily life of Paris. He amazes me. I believe he would 
make a great newspaper man with proper training. 

Figaro has been publishing a translation of the prophecies 
of a sixteenth century monk. It is curious to note that in the 
minds of the French existing conditions would seem to bear out 
his prophecy that the Kaiser, according to the Book of Revela- 
tions, is truly the Anti-Christ therein foretold. All of which 
reminds me that when I was a litde boy, living with my grand- 
mother in a small town named Cavan in Ireland, there was a 
very admirable old lady of emotional religious qualities who 
frequented my grandmother's house and fully convinced her and 
me, child that I was, that Napoleon III. was in fact the Anti- 
Christ described by St. John in his Revelations. One hundred 
years from now, when the next war breaks out, I am sure that 
there will be plenty of equally nice religious old ladies and 
others prepared to convince other nice old grandmothers like 
mine and impressionable little boys such as I was, that Anti- 
Christ is still doing business at the same old stand ! 



The Soul of Paris 121 




XVIII. 

Neither War Nor Rumors of War Can Disturb the Olympian 
Serenity of France's "Immortals'' — Weef^ly Sessions as 
Usual — Press Censorship — Clemenceau Has His "Say." 

Paris, Thursday, Sept. 24, 1914. 

HILE the cannons thunder along the Aisne and 
human lives are perishing by thousands upon the 
battlefields of Europe the Academie Francaise 
— France's "Immortals" — continues to hold its 
weekly sessions on Thursday afternoons at the 
Institute of France, that monument to the genius of 
Mazarin, its Olympic calm undisturbed by the horrors of war 
in 1914 as in 1870-71, during the siege, and even the Com- 
mune. 

Curiosity to get a glimpse of some of these eminent men of 
the France of to-day led me over this afternoon to their his- 
toric meeting place. When I got there I found that they had 
already been in session some time. I was shown into a little 
room which I was told was the newspaper men's headquarters. 
Half a dozen very agreeable Parisian reporters were on hand 
waiting to get the news if there was any. 

Understand that the members of the Academy do not hold 
their ordinary meeting in the great hall crowned by the im- 
mense cupola which looks across the Pont des Arts toward the 
Louvre. They have a large workroom connected with the 
Mazarin Library, in the centre of which is a big table on which 
lie forty portefolios and around which are forty armchairs. No 



122 The Soul of Paris 

outsiders are permitted while the Academiciens are in session 
and all you can find out about the proceedings is what they 
choose to communicate very formally or what you can obtain 
from_ a "leaky" member. This afternoon, as usual, the Academ- 
iciens present, of whom there were twelve, devoted themselves 
to their usual routine work on the dictionary. I think they are 
only somewhere at the end of the letter "E!" 



>^> 



So, you see, I really can't tell you much about what hap- 
pened behind those closed doors (although I heard they passed 
a resolution of sympathy for their confrere Ernest Lavisse, 
whose house was burned by the Germans in the east) , but it is 
interesting as a matter of record to know who were there, for 
I saw each one of them as he left. One of the first to de- 
scend was the famous Napoleonic authority, M. Frederic Mas- 
son. A man of medium height, considerable avoirdupois, 
broad, strong face, with a slight grayish-brown mustache, he 
seemed about sixty-five years of age and looked like he might be 
the head of a big banking house. Close behind him came the 
trimmest, neatest looking little French artillery captain, with his 
spotless light blue tunic fitting him like wax, round rosy cheeks 
and a dainty little mustache. It was Marcel Prevost, who 
makes a specialty of analyzing the psychology of the gentler 
sex. He gets leave of absence from his fort in the environs of 
Paris to attend the weekly meetings of the Academie. 

A thin nervous man, perhaps sixty-five, with short straggling 
beard, muffled in an overcoat, who hurried out to the court- 
yard and jumped into an automobile was Gabriel Hannotaux, 
former Minister of Foreign Affairs and one of the most active 
spirits in the France-Amerique Committee whose purpose is to 
strengthen the cordial relations between France and the New 



The Soul of Paris 123 

World. The sturdy iron gray whiskered man v/ho looked like 
a prosperous Western farmer with whom M. Hannotaux shook 
hands as he departed was Mr. Denis Cochin, one of France's 
most brilliant publicists and one of the Deputies who represent 
Paris in Parliament. 

'Vtf ''Bf '^R* 

t^f J^ ^^ 

Presently appeared at the doorway a man whose type of 
face and genial manner reminded me of Marion Crawford. I 
knew I had seen his face quite recently in the newspapers, and 
as he was about to light his cigarette with the most nonchalant 
unacademic air, I had the impudence to approach him and say : 

"This must be M. Maurice Barres?" 

"Parfaitement, Monsieur!" he replied with a twinkle in his 
eye; "and I think you must be an American. Won't you have 
a cigarette?" 

Of course I accepted his courteous offer. We had a few 
minutes' agreeable chat, and he left me after shaking my hand 
cordially and expressing his high regard for the United States 
and all it represents. 

A few minutes later there passed out a man of medium 
height and slender figure, with closely buttoned overcoat, brown 
hat and brown mustache. He looked like an army or navy 
man "encivile." 

"You must have seen him in New York," remarked one of 
my Paris confreres. 

But I had not and I was rather surprised to be told it was 
none other than Naval Lieut. Pierre Loti, for from what I 
had read about him I had conceived an entirely different idea of 
his physical personality. 



124 The Soul of Paris 

There was no mistaking the next Academicien who crossed 
the courtyard. He was a man with the physique of a heavy 
weight champion. He wore a dark, short, double-breasted 
jacket and a soft gray hat with a black band. Underneath 
the rim of that hat danced a pair of keen, merry, bluish gray 
eyes. His well trimmed full beard was slightly parted in the 
middle. You could feel he was a man of magnetism. That 
man was the author of "La Glue," the Academicien who 
shocked some of his fellow "Immortals" by glorifying the tango 
in literature — Jean Richepin. Here my impudence got the 
better of me again, and I had to shake hands with him. M. 
Richepin was soon joined by Rene Doumic, the eminent literary 
critic of The Gaulois, a striking looking man, with a military 
mustache and pointed beard, and by Maurice Donnay, the 
well known dramatist, brownish mustache and sharp featured. 
While walking slowly behind came Etienne Lamy, perpetual 
secretary of the Academie ; Francis Charmes, historian, the pre- 
siding officer, and Etienne Boutroux, the philosopher, who 
.looked the part, with his long gray white beard, scholastic stoop 
and abstracted air. 

^^r ^®^ ^s^ 

That was all. I trailed behind them through the quiet courts 
out onto the quai and watched those who had not already de- 
parted in autos either take their way across the Pont des Arts 
or stroll along beside the shelves of the scores and scores of 
second hand book sellers that decorate and have decorated for 
so many generations past this border of the Seine. 

It was another beautiful autumn afternoon. The sun was 
sinking and its horizontal rays gave a peculiar lustre to the lin- 
gering verdure of the trees along the river. The sharply de- 
fined shadows of the arched bridge on the flowing water added 



The Soul of Paris 125 

another detail to the picture. When I reached the Tuilleries 
Gardens they were aHve with mothers and children. School- 
days have begun, you know, and five o'clock is the hour when 
the little folk seek their recreation. It was rather surprising to 
me to see how many of them are remaining in Paris — children 
evidently of well-to-do parents. They were playing tennis and 
shuttlecock, rolling hoops and tossing balls, and the pretty little 
basin in which the fountain was playing was dotted with toy 
sailboats. It made me think for a m.ornent that I was three 
or more thousand miles away in Central Park, New York, in- 
stead of being in Paris during the war of 1914. 

The newspapers here are beginning to grow very restive un- 
der the restrictions of the censor. Curiously enough there are 
two censors — one at the temporary capital of Bordeaux and 
the other in Paris. Oftentimes the Bordeaux censor will let 
something pass which the Paris censor cuts out. 

One man, however, seems to be a bit more favored than 
any of his brother editors — Georges Clemenceau. For some 
reason or other Clemenceau dares to say things — and gets them 
printed — that no one else dare say. The Ministry is just a lit- 
tle bit afraid of him — octogenarian though he almost be. 

Yesterday I got a copy of The Evening Sun of September 
ninth. It contains the account of the capture of Maubeuge. 
Would you believe it that not one word about that disaster 
was printed in Paris until the day before yesterday, Tuesday, 
September twenty-second? It was Le Temps (which has just 
come back to Paris from Bordeaux) in which the first an- 
nouncement appeared. The next morning (yesterday) the other 
papers reported the bare facts, with the excuse that Le Temps 
already had done so. And yet every concierge in Paris knew 



126 The Soul of Paris 

what had happened, for it was the concierge of the house in 
which M. Jacque Rouche, the opera director, lives, who first 
told me confidentially, as she had two sons whom she sup- 
posed were either killed or taken prisoners. 

I find in a copy of The Secolo of Milan a despatch from 
Berlin in which a German officer who was wounded in the 
battle of the Marne gives his impressions regarding the value 
of the opposing artillery. Perhaps they are worth printing as 
a matter of record. Here they are: 

"In this war the last word will be spoken by the artillery. 
For that we must await the decisive victory. 

"Our grenades are well made and the tremendous noise 
they make in exploding must have its effect upon the enemy. 
On the other hand the appearance of mortiers de campagne 
on the scene has been a great success for us. 

"But the French obus is a projectile of the first quality and 
explodes with an astonishing precision. At the outset of the 
war all our shells burst too high, and we learned this fact from 
letters of French artillerymen and officers which we found in 
villages invaded. 

"It must be admitted that the French artillerymen are ex- 
traordinarily good shots and their signal service must be mar- 
vellously organized. 

"Finally the French service of supplies in munitions also 
must be perfect. Never have I known it to happen that the 
fire of the batteries has ceased because of exhaustion of am- 
munition." 

Out of justice to myself I beg to say that I have modified 



The Soul of Paris 127 

my views considerably since I learned definitely of the fall of 
Maubeuge and of the hitch in the advance of the so-called 
Russian "steam roller." Whatever may be the outcome of 
the terrible battle being waged from the Somme to the Meuse, 
il would seem that the optimistic hope that this war would be 
over sooner than many sage persons had thought must be toned 
down considerably. In Paris among the masses — high and 
low- — the feeling has taken hold that it will be "dure et longue," 
although at the beginning the popular idea was that it would be 
a three months' affair. But every one accepts the situation re- 
signedly. So much so that I think the censorship of the press 
might with perfect safety be reduced to the very minimum. A 
curious change seems to have come over the Parisian mentality 
as compared with what it must have been forty-four years ago. 



28 The Soul of Paris 




XIX. 

Typical Home Life of a Paris Workmgman — Supper in La 
Chapelle Quarter n>ith Leons Friends, the Selan:e 
Family — Where Joan of Arc Attended Mass. 

Paris, Saturday Night, Sept. 26, 1914. 

HAVE just had one of the most interesting evenings 
I ever had in Paris. Do you remember Gustave 
Charpentier's opera "Louise"? Do j^ou remem- 
ber the closing scene of the first act? Do you 
think that was merely a stage picture? It is the 
truth. Perhaps this may be a banal story, but I 
shall tell it and let it go at that. 

My gavroche retainer Leon yesterday invited me to have 
dinner — or I should say supper — with the family who have 
looked after him and his little brothers since his mother and 
father died three or four years ago. Could I refuse? Of 
course not. So at about six o'clock we started for the Chapelle 
quarter of Paris — a quarter that in some respects corresponds 
with certain sections of Tenth avenue or Avenue A in New 
York. 

As we were approaching the home of his good friends M. 
and Mme. Selame, thirty-three Rue Torcy, way up on the 
heights of northeast Paris, the Thirty-second Regiment of In- 
fantry was passing down the Rue de la Chapelle on its way, 
after a few days of repose, to re-enforce the French Army at 
the front. Everybody in the quarter had turned out to greet 
and cheer the little French "Piou-Pious." Everybody in this 



The Soul of Paris 129 

great crowd of working people seemed to have something to 
give the soldiers. One had a package of cigarettes, another 
had a handful of fruit, another had a plate of tarts, another 
had a great long loaf of bread. It was a wonderfully inter- 
esting sight, a sight to move your heart. The regiment passed 
on, the crowd dispersed and soon the quarter became unusu- 
ally quiet, for I am told that in other times than war times its 
streets at this hour are thronged with human beings. 

j& 3^' j€9 



Leon took me directly to the Selames' simple little apart- 
ment of two rooms (its cost is fifty-four dollars a year) and I 
rnet Mother Selame and the dear old grandmother of eighty- 
three years of age, whose sight was failing but whose intelli- 
gence still was keen. They greeted me cordially but not ser- 
vilely. There was a fine dignity about these simple Parisian 
working people that added to my respect for the race. We 
were told that dinner would be ready when the "bonhomme," 
the master of the house, had finished his daily work. 

"Let us go and get him," I said to Leon and to his foster 
cousin, Auguste Selame, a boy of nineteen years, whose nick- 
name I learned was "Pierrot." 

So off we w^ent around the corner to La Chapelle Market 
house, where we found Father Selame hard at work with 
twenty other honest laboring men washing out the market. He 
was quite proud of his job and presented me to the Market 
Master, who informed me that La Chapelle Market was one 
of the best paying institutions of its kind in this city of Paris. 

"We never have a vacant stall," said he. "Each person 
pays one franc per day for a stall privilege. He or she must 
have lived in the quarter at least ten years and there is a wait- 



130 The Soul of Paris 

ing list now of scores who may not get a chance to rent a stall 
for many, many months." 

^^r ^F^ ^5^ 

We left Father Selame finishing his job and then we made 
a tour of the district. Leon and Augusta showed me the public 
school which they had attended and then took me across the 
street and showed the "Ouvroir" — as they call it — where the 
good Sisters of Charity give employment to hundreds of young 
girls of the neighborhood at ten cents a day sewing on shirts 
for the soldiers. Next we strolled up the Rue de la Chapelle 
and reached a little church — a very little church. In front 
of it stood what I thought was one of the best statues of Jeanne 
d'Arc that I have seen in Paris. 

"Here is where we boys were baptised and confirmed," 
said Leon, "and here is where Mother Selame was married." 

Just then a middle-aged priest with a fine classic face came 
out and the boys introduced me to him. I found him both 
gracious and intelligent. 

"It's a very old church," said he. "It dates from the thir- 
teenth century. Originally it gave its name to the district 
which was known as the village of La Chapelle, this territory 
lying quite outside the old city walls. Before it stood a church 
built in the fourth century dedicated to Sainte Genevieve, the 
patron saint of Paris. This church is dedicated to St. Denis. 
The facade, which you see, is rather Greek in its style, 
in a restoration of the eighteenth century. Come inside (which 
we did) and you will see in this simple structure one of the 
most interesting examples in Paris of the evolution from the 
Roman style of architecture to the Gothic. The carved pulpit 
which seems to attract you dates from the middle of the eigh- 
teenth century. The choir, as you see, is a comparatively 



The Soul of Paris 131 



modern addition and not quite in harmony with the rest of the 
architecture." 

As I do not pretend to be an architectural expert, I will only 
add that perhaps it might repay some students of this art when 
next they are in Paris to pay a visit to this quaint little church. 
Here it was that Jeanne d'Arc attended mass before engaging 
in another Siege of Paris, of which history tells us all about. 
With her army she advanced to the Port St. Honore and there 
was wounded. She was brought back to a farm house just 
behind the church (so my friend Leon told me) and was re- 
stored to a sound condition. A portion of that farm still exists, 
and I saw three very fine cows in the enclosure being milked. 
What more proof could you demand of my historical accuracy? 

^^r ^®^ i^s" 

It was now time for supper. Back we went to the little 
apartment of the Selames. There was a big round table which 
nearly filled the room, on which there were eight large soup 
plates and eight glasses and two bottles of white wine which 
probably cost eleven cents apiece. Mother and grandmother 
were awaiting us. Two young daughters. Julienne, eighteen 
years old, who before the war worked in the sev/ing room of 
the Printemps department shop, and Rose, sixteen years old, 
who until the war threw her out of work was a paper box 
maker, joined us. Simply but neatly clad they took their places 
with us at the table. Auguste had worked in a sugar refinery 
until the war broke out. Presently in came Father Selame, a 
slender man of fifty, with a mustache still black and with a 
genial, kindly air. He shook me by the hand warmly and gave 
me a genuine ^velcome to his humble home. Before sitting 
down he took off his coat and threw it on the bed near by. 
Both Auguste and Leon, I noticed, had also removed their 



132 The Soul of Paris 

coats. We were about to drink a toast in the simple eleven- 
cent white wine to grandmother when Leon tapped me on the 
elbow and remarked: 

"You see our custom in working people's families when we 
eat supper?" 

I took his tip, and with as little fuss as possible I also re- 
moved my coat and reseated myself in my short sleeves. I 
remember some years ago when an eminent politician in New 
York v/ho was campaigning in the Bowery for an eminent po- 
litical office of the Empire State thought he could make a hit 
with the people of that district by making a speech in his shirt 
sleeves. I also remember that he did not m.ake a hit at all. 
Instead of uncoating he should have followed the practice of the 
famous Mayor of New York, Fernando Wood, who never 
went down to the lower wards to address "the boys" unless he 
was in his smartest evening clothes. I thought of this a few 
minutes after I had removed my coat, but later on Leon in- 
formed me confidentially that I had done the right thing at the 
right time. 

^^; ^^7 H^ 

Well, what did we have to eat? I know you are getting 
hungry as I was after my walk around the quarter and my in- 
spection of the market and my study of ecclesiastical archi- 
tecture. It was a very simple meal. An im.mense dish of 
ragout of veal — mighty fine, toothsome, tender veal — with every 
kind of vegetable you can imagine! Bless your heart but it 
was good! Jimmy Regan's best chef couldn't touch it! Fred 
Sterry hasn't anything like it on his bill of fare at the Plaza. 
Muschenheim of the Astor ought to cable for the recipe at 
once! Each of us had a big soup dish full of it, and I had a 
second helping! As we ate it we all engaged in that best of 



The Soul of Paris 133 



appetizing sauces — "cheerful conversation." Mother Selarae 
told me about her older son, a dragoon, who is in the thick of 
the fight in the battle of the Aisne. Father Selame explained 
how difficult it v/as to make ends meet during the war, although 
each member of the family is allowed twenty-live cents a day 
from the local Mairie. He gets one dollar a day for his work 
in the Market House, but instead of the ordinary ten hours re- 
quired, he has to work fifteen without increase of pay, so that 
the families of the market employees who are at the front may 
draw their absent breadwinners' salaries. It imposed a heavy 
extra burden on him, but he bore it cheerfully and gladly. 

After the ragout came a great big dish of delicious, crisp 
salad with a "bully good" dressing and a bit of cheese on the 
side. No French dinner is complete without fruit, and fruit 
we had — nice sweet little pears — followed by the regulation 
cup of coffee. 

^^r ^^r ^^r 

While we were drinking our coffee Julienne produced a 
mandolin and entertained us with the "Merry Widow Waltz," 
while Auguste told me of the splendid swimming and bath 
house which the city had erected in the quarter and which 
could be used by everybody for four cents. Mother Selame 
thought that one of the best public institutions in La Chapelle 
was the "Lavoir," the public wash house, where anybody can 
take her linen in the evening and have it boiled overnight for 
four or five cents and the next day go there and for a few 
cents more get a big tub with plenty of soap and complete the 
job herself. 

When we had finished coffee all of us, except grandmother, 
started for a stroll. I took Mother Selame on one arm and 
sister Julienne on the other. Father Selame and Rose led the 
way and Leon and Auguste trailed behmd. We walked down 



134 The Soul of Paris 

to the fortifications, saw the barricades erected against a pos- 
sible invasion, had the house pointed out where mother and 
father first lived after their marriage, heard some funny stories 
about the queer people of the neighborhood, talked to the po- 
licemen that they all seemed to know and returned to the fam- 
ily residence at about ten o'clock, when I bade them good 
night and took my leave. 

^F^ ^^^ ^^^ 

Such is the simple story of one of the most delightful pran- 
dial events of my life. 



The Soul of Paris 1 35 



XX. 



Waiting to Hear of the Kaiser's Assassination — //on> the Paris 
Masses Expected Mme. de Thebes' Prediction to Be 
Realized — Little Denise Cartier, Heroine — George. 

Paris, Thursday, Sept. 29, 1914. 



T 



HIS it St. Michael's Day — St. Michael, the patron 
saint of the soldier. It is also the twenty-ninth day 
of September. It has been a day of attente — of 
expectation, of waiting for something to happen. 
This feeling of attente has pervaded all the quar- 
ters, has obsessed the minds of all the "little 
people" of Paris. When I stopped to buy my papers this 
morning at my favorite kiosque on the Boulevard the proprietress 
remarked: 

"I wonder if it will happen?" 

Later on, when I entered the little cigar shop to get my 
daily supply of two-cent Governmental stogies, the cheery little 
woman who therein presides interrupted the proceedings to in- 
quire : 

"Do you realh think that it will be his end?" 
Later on, returning to my hotel, I passed through the St. 
Honore Market to buy a couple of pears, and as I was settling 
my account the sturdy market woman asked me eagerly: 
"Have you heard if he has been assassinated yet or not?" 
This may all seem very mystifying if you do not know al- 
ready that Mme. de Thebes, the great fortune teller, had pre- 
dicted that the German Emperor would meet his fate on Sep- 



36 The Soul of Paris 



tember 29, 1914. It may seem incredible, but I assure you 
that the impression that this prediction had made upon the minds 
of the Parisian working classes, the concierges, the street ven- 
ders, the cochers, the patrons of the little wine shops was quite 
extraordinary. However, as the day progressed and as the 
evening approached Mme. de Thebes' reputation as a prophet- 
ess suffered a serious depreciation. Parisian-like, the people 
began to treat it as a joke. It is now almost midnight and so 
far as we know the Kaiser is safe and sound and enjoying the 
best of health ! 

^©^ ^©^ „^> 

No observer who has been here since the war began can fail 
to have noticed the extraordinary religious renaissance in France. 
I have already told you about the great religious demonstration 
at Notre Dame Cathedral, which occurred a few weeks ago. 
Last Sunday afternoon I climbed the heights of Montmartre 
and attended vespers at the Sacre Coeur, that great white ba- 
silica which dominates the entire city. I have been at the 
Sacre Coeur on other Sunday afternoons in other years when 
merely a handful of worshippers v/as present. Last Sunday 
afternoon, however, the great edifice was packed. Thousands 
and thousands of candles were being lit and put in front of 
the many altars of the church by relatives and friends of those 
who were at the front fighting for their country, or who had 
already fallen on the field of battle. You could feel the spirit 
of reawakened faith in the air. It was just the same spirit that 
vitalized the old-fashioned American Methodist camp meeting. 

It is true that of recent years, since the separation of the 
Church and State in France, the Government policy has been 
ultra anti-clerical. Personally I cannot believe in a State 
Church. Like the great Italian statesman, I accept the doctrine 



The Soul of Paris 137 

of "a free church in a free State." I cannot help feeUng, 
nevertheless, that in many respects recent French Governments 
have show^n a lack of w^isdom in their extreme anti-clericalism. 
Extremes always produce reaction. 

When the war broke out the Governmental authorities made 
it a special point to see that all the Catholic priests possible 
should be compelled to go to the front as common soldiers. 
They responded nobly. Every one admits that there have been 
no better or braver soldiers than they. Hundreds have been 
killed and hundreds have been prom.oted to be officers. They 
have proved that they were men first and priests afterward. 
They have raised the Catholic priesthood of France in the es- 
sheltering themselves as army' chaplains, from shot and shell, 
they have been lying in the trenches with the members of their 
flocks, where they have been ever ready whenever a comrade 
received a mortal wound to drop their muskets and administer 
the last offices of the Church. 

As a non-Catholic it gives me great pleasure to state these 
facts, which are based upon the most reliable and unbiassed 
information. The Government may have intended to restrict 
the influence of the Catholic clergy in France, but unwittingly 
it has done something that will put this same clergy in closer, 
more intimate, more human touch with the masses that could 
even have been imagined by the Vatican itself. 

3©" 3^ 3®" 

During the past five or six days the emotional barometer of 
Paris has been steadily mounting. Even the visit of the Ger- 
man aeroplanes last Sunday when one of them dropped a bomb 
within a block of the American Embassy, instantly killing Rene 
Hocquet, an elderly lawyer, who was taking a Sunday stroll, 
timalion of all classes several hundred per cent. Instead of 



138 The Soul of Paris 



and so injuring the leg of a thirteen-year-old girl, Denise Car- 
tier, who had gone out to buy a loaf of bread for the family 
repast, that she had to have her limb amputated, has not tended 
to check the growing cheerfulness of spirits which at this writing 
Paris is experiencing. Little Denise, by the way, is just now 
the city's heroine. "Don't tell mother it is serious," was what 
she said as they picked her up — ^just half a block from the 
American Embassy — to take her to the hospital. 

^©^ ^^r ^B^ 

A few weeks ago hardly a note of music was to be heard in 
this city. Anybody who played a piano was considered an 
outlaw. However, one after another cinematograph houses 
opened where small orchestras played the "Marseillaise." the 
Russian national hymn, "God Save the King" and the Belgian 
royal anthem. I took a drive around the Montmartre section 
the other night with my friend George Smith, the only English 
"cocher" in Paris — a jolly, ruddy faced Britisher who has 
lived here thirty years and knows as much about the city and 
its points of historic interest as Georges Cain of the Musee 
Carnavalet. The only bright spot in that district which to so 
many foolish Americans represents Paris life was the big elec- 
trically illuminated mill of the Moulin Rouge. I peeked in for 
a few minutes. My! my! What a Moulin Rouge! You, 
fellow Americans who have visited Paris on pleasure bent, 
don't have to be told what the Moulin Rouge is when the city 
is "wide open." The Moulin Rouge that I saw the other eve- 
ning was one of the most innocent cinematograph entertainments 
that I have ever known, and the audience consisted principally 
of a very nice class of women and children. 



The Soul of Paris 139 

I was starting back to my hotel when George called my at- 
tention to the light that was creeping through the shutters on 
the famous cabaret of the equally famous chansonnier, Aristide 
Bruant, who is now a well-to-do farmer a long way from Mont- 
martre, somewhere in the provinces. George and I entered to 
see what was going on. The little room, decorated with Bre- 
ton wood carvings and an endless assortment of sketches, cari- 
catures and grotesque drawings by young artists of "the quar- 
ter," was filled with young men and women of the neighbor- 
hood. Half a dozen soldiers in uniform gave a touch of color 
to the otherwise sombre aspect of the place. There was plenty 
of cigar and pipe smoke. It was half past nine o'clock and no 
one could get a drop to drink; for the drinking hours close at 
eight and the military order is absolutely enforced. 

What were these people doing? you will ask. What was 
there to amuse them? Well, there were four or five "enter- 
tainers," one of them an elderly man with a clean shaven face 
and long hair, and the others ranging in age from t\'/enty-five 
to thirty-five. In turn each stood up beside a piano that was 
not in the very best of tune and which was being vigorously 
pounded by a little man with a black mustache and sang war 
songs from little sheets which they afterward offered for sale 
for two cents instead of "passing the hat." Everybody bought 
one, and after they bought them the song was sung over again 
and everybody joined in the chorus, while a large middle aged 
amiable looking woman presiding behind the cash box smiled 
approval on the proceedings. I found the "entertainers" to be 
a jovial, genial, witty lot of fellows. In the days of Bruant, 
the proprietor, who was the chief "entertainer," helped make 
himself famous by poking fun not of a too nice kind at every 
stranger who entered his establishment. One or two of these 
successors of his tried this trick on me, but with the aid of my 
friend George, who knows Paris slang as well as a Parisian 



140 The Soul of Paris 

born, I got a few "cracks" at them in return, and when I 
showed the pianist that I could improve his harmony for one of 
the songs they were singing I was immediately taken into camp 
and invited to come again. 

Street music is also m.ore frequently heard. And the broken 
down fiddler and the poor working girl with a cracked voice 
out of a job can always collect a crowd and earn a few francs 
if they get to work at a street corner. 

The Paris journalists who did not fiee to Bordeaux during 
the panic" when the Germans were less than tvN'^enty miles out- 
side of the city continue to have a lot of fun at the expense not 
only of their confreres but of the many other non-combatant 
Parisians who thought that just at that time their state of health 
required such a change of air as only Bordeaux or Tours could 
afford. You can tell a Parisian "fuyard" who has sneaked 
back to the city by the shamefaced look he wears. He is won- 
derfully prolific in his excuses. His ingenuity in this respect al- 
most reaches genius. However, as a compensating feature if 
you meet him at a cafe he always insists upon paying for the 
drinks. 

Abel Hermant, the clever Parisian dramatist, had a very 
witty article in last evening's Intransigeant in which he replied 
to the Bordeaux contingent's sneer that Paris at last had "be- 
come a provincial city," being no longer "the Capital of 
France." He concludes his article as follows: 

" 'A Capital' — that is not a mere geographical expression or 
even political, any more than 'a Fatherland.' 'A Fatherland' — 
that is the name of a soul ; 'a Capital' — that is also the name of 
a soul, especially when the Capital of which we speak is Paris. 
And Paris knows very well that it has not suddenly lost its 



The Soul of Paris 141 

soul like the traveler who lost his shadow. Never has it felt 
itself so vital. Never has it felt its soul so conscious in its great 
body. It does not attempt to conceal the fact that this soul 
composed of so many individual souls has suffered some dimin- 
ution since a month ago. But when it makes up the account 
of what it has lost it observes that it is only 'tout Paris.' Pas 
grand chose! — very small matter after all! We find that we 
here are only les petites gens — 'the little people.' I wonder 
after all if the real Paris is not the Paris of the 'little people' !" 



Personal Intelligence — Mr. William Dodsworth, formerly 
of Milwaukee, and for years Special Agent here of the Ameri- 
can Express Company — "glass of fashion and mold of form" 
— is still a decorative feature of Paris life. 

Boyd Neel is back from London. All he is waiting for is 
the reopening of the New York Stock Exchange. 

>/S^ »^Sf ^Zf 

Well, Clemenceau caught it at last! The Government let 
him go to the "limit" in his L' Homme Libre. Finally Minister 
of War Millerand decided to call a halt on his criticisms and 
his paper was suspended. Did that worry the "Old Tiger?" 
Not a bit of it! Next day he had a paper out as usual, but it 
was not called L'Homme Libre. — The Freeman — but 
L' Homme Enchaine — The Man in Chains! Can you beat 
him? 



142 The Soul of Paris 



nr^ 



XXI. 

Bidding Paris Good-b^e — An Emotional Occasion — Casual 
Reflections — A Very Parisian Incident — George and 
Sam-Gene — French Protestantism Protests. 

Paris, Friday, Oct. 2, 1914. 

HIS is my last day in and my last letter from Paris 
during the war of 1914. I won't say "1914-15," 
because I don't want to believe that these criminal 
proceedings can possibly extend until New Year; 
1 fear I am hoping against hope. In two hours 
and a half I shall take the train for Havre to sail 
for New York. No one who has not been here since the be- 
ginning of the war can understand the feelings of one who has 
remained during these indescribable times in taking leave of 
this city. 

This is no pose. If you have been a visitor to Paris for 
five or six summers in succession and spent each time two or 
three months — not in the gay world, not in "society," but sim- 
ply as a plain everyday American citizen seeking information 
and recreation — you might realize how it would tug at your 
heart strings to turn your back in such an hour upon this great 
center of civilization; for after all my observations of thirty-one 
years in newspaperdom I have come to the conclusion as an 
Americanized Irishman with a fairly good early home training 
and tolerable educational privileges that the French people, 
taking them all in all from top to bottom, are the most civilized 
people in the world. 



The Soul of Paris 143 

I hope my many Americanized German friends won't be 
angry with me for this statement. No one more than I recog- 
nizes the fine quahties of the German mentality. The college 
to which I owe more of my education, such as it is, than to 
any other influence, was built up largely upon German uni- 
versity principles. Nevertheless French culture — please observe 
this word "culture" — is a necessity in the world's intellectual 
evolution. Perhaps one of the results of this bloody carnage 
now in progress will be the blending of Teutonic erudition — 
please observe the word "erudition" in this instance — ^with 
French culture. 

These two elements combined with an American-Anglo- 
Saxon impulse may produce a force that will renovate this old 
world of ours. I can't help believing that we are passing 
through a period vastly more important in the history of the 
human race than that wonderful period when Florence was the 
center of intellectual activity; when Savonarola thundered; 
when Lorenzo de Medici surrounded himself with the scholar- 
ship of the civilized world ; when Fra Angelico wrought his im- 
perishable frescoes in the G)nvent of St. Marc's; when that 
universal genius, Leonardo da Vinci painted his "Mona Lisa" 
— I can't help feeling but that we are now passing through a 
period in world history that will leave an impress on the social, 
intellectual, artistic and religious sides of the human race more 
far reaching in its influence on our future development than the 
so-called Renaissance ! 

^S' jls Jw 

Excuse these divagations; but you must accept this corre- 
spondence as more or less foolishly personal. I am just telling 
you what I think on the eve of my departure to America. I 
hate to go just now. There is something in the air. It may be 



144 The Soul of Paris 

a fantasy like the story of the Russians coming around from 
Archangel by way of Northern Scotland. Everybody believed 
that stoi-y ; it had a wonderful psychological effect on the French 
public. Whoever started it had a good knowledge of human 
nature. It braced up the popular spirit during a trying hour. 

How much truth there is in tlie latest story that is going 
around I know not. The official communiques are excessively 
discreet. I do not feel justified in disclosing what my friends 
the French major of cuirassiers, and the police commissioner of 
my quarter told me this morning. Before this letter is printed in 
New York the facts will be known. However, reading be- 
tween the lines of tlie official announcements, it would seem that 
things are going fairly well for the French and English in this 
seemingly interminable siege — the battle of the Aisne. Whether 
the stories afloat are true or not the emotional barometer of 
Paris to-day is very high. 

I am leaving Paris in a reasonably comfortable state of mind, 
but before going I took a bit of a spin around to look the people 
over. An unusually good spirit prevails. The boulevards, 
were it not for the closed shops and aibsence of the auto buses, 
looked almost normal. True it is the Rue de la Paix is prac- 
tically deserted and the contingent of foreigners who patronize 
the "terrace" in front of the Cafe de la Paix is absent, leaving 
the establishment almost without clients. Further down the 
boulevards, however, toward the east an hour ago I found the 
real French cafes filled with a cheerful coffee drinking, syrup 
and soda sipping crowd, all wondering whether "the good 
news" which no newspaper did more than hint at most indi- 
rectly were true. 

Just before I came to my hotel to pack up my baggage and 



The Soul of Paris 145 

dictate this letter the lights on the boulevards were illuminated. 
There seemed to be a few more than usual, and when I dropped 
in at the Cafe Neapolitian to have a cup of tea with some of 
my confreres the subject of conversation was the action of the 
censor in cutting out of several newspapers this morning a rer- 
erence to the fact that the Government was considering a re- 
vival with its emoluments of the old title of "Marshal of 
France," as it was evident that such an honor would not be 
awarded unless for "specially distinguished services in the field," 
and as there could be no other general in view than Joffre "the 
silent." Gambetta it was who said in 1 875 that no man could 
ever expect to be Marshal of France who did not find tlie way 
to Strasburg. Is it possible that something has happened to 
justify the making of a Marshal ? We all wondered. 

My farewell dejeuner in Paris was taken with Gustave 
Herve, editor of the Socialist organ, "La Guerre Sociale." 
We spent two hours together and I got from him an inside view 
of French politics which was most instructive — for myself — as 
this is no time to discuss such subjects. As a matter of fact, 
I did not realize before how justified the French Government 
was in leaving Paris for Bordeaux. Herve still thinks that per- 
haps they left a little too soon; that they might have chanced 
staying here a day or so longer. But the Germans were pain- 
fully close to the gates of Paris at that moment, and the Gov- 
ernment before its reorganization was actually considering the 
proposition of the then Minister of War, M. Messimy, to offer 
no resistance but let their army march into Paris as they did 
into Brussels. If any person thinks that France was seeking 
war on this occasion all he needs to know — if he is an honest 
truth seeker — is that the forts around Paris, in the opinion of 



146 The Soul of Paris 

many well informed Frenchmen, were at that time not in con- 
dition to restrain the attacks of the enemy. If it were not for 
the seeming miracle which occurred the Germans, many think, 
could have walked into Paris just as easily as a St. Patrick's 
Day parade from Fifth avenue could have taken possession of 
Columbus Circle by way of Fifty-ninth street. But something 
happened — we are still waiting to know all the truth. The 
German army turned aside to the southeast. Paris was saved 
from the invader. 

Why, a student of human events will ask, is there after all 
"a divinity which shapes our ends?" Was it part of the de- 
sign of the Unknown Power of which the universe is the ex- 
pression that this city and the finest things in it should be pre- 
served from the fate of Louvain or Malines? I leave this 
question to be answered, not by a military strategist but by a 
theologian — orthodox or otherwise. 

A typical Parisian incident occurred during dejeuner. A 
tall, handsome man of rather aristocratic air approached our 
table. 

"Permit me to present myself," said he. "I want to renew 
my acquaintance with Monsieur Herve. Perhaps he will re- 
member that we were fellow jailbirds a few years ago when 
he was locked up for his dreadful Socialistic editorials, while 
the same Government locked me up for my flaming royalist 
eloquence at a demonstration of the 'camelots du roi.' " 

"Why, certainly I do," replied Monsieur Herve, shaking 
the other's hand cordially. "You are Monsieur Ludovic 
Leblanc, a brother journalist. We found ourselves together 
in jail for our diametrically opposed opinions, and now we meet 
for the first time since then at table with a Jeffersonian Amer- 



The Soul of Paris 147 

ican, who probably thinks we are both a bit foolishly extreme." 
And then over our coffee Monsieur Herve recalled the occa- 
sion (during incarceration) when Monsieur Leblanc invited him 
to a "jail party" in honor of the birthday of Lcuis XVI. 
Herve declined, although he admits accepting an admirable 
dish of poulet saute from the royalist feast. Later on he invited 
Leblanc to a "jail party" in honor of the fall of the Bastille. 
Likewise declined! However, the son-in-law of Karl Marx, 
Paul Lafarge, who at the age of seventy committed suicide with 
his wife, had bequeathed to Herve twenty-five bottles of very 
old Rhine wine. Herve and Leblanc compromised by having 
a "jail party" together after all on a dies non, at which each 
drank to the health and speedy liberation of the other in this 
Karl Marxian brand of Rhine, wine whose mellow virtue is 
said to be powerful enough to transform the bitterest partisan 
strife into a peace that almost passeth understanding. 

Such an incident as this could only happen in Paris, and that 
is why I think \t is worth the telling. 

Just a few words about my friend George Smith — the only 
English "cocher" in Paris — of whom I have already spoken. 
He almost wept as he told me that he couldn't drive me to the 
station to-night, as he had to have his cab outside the fortifica- 
tions before eight o'clock. He insisted, however, upon my hav- 
ing a ride with him across the river to the Quai Conti and the 
corner of the little Rue de Nevers, just opposite the Pont-Neuf, 
where the statue of Henry Quartre gazes up the Seine toward 
Notre Dame. 

"You see that fifth story up there in the mansard roof?" said 
George, pointing with his whip. "That's where He lived when 
he was a poor devil of a sub-lieutenant. Get out of the cab 



148 The Soul of Paris 

and walk down the street here and I will show you where He 
had his washing done." 

So George led me with reverent step to No. 5 Rue de 
Nevers. It was the last house left standing on the south side 
of the narrow street; the others between it and the Quai have 
been torn down to make way for "modern improvements." For- 
tunately the dwelling in which once existed the blanchisserie of 
Madame Sans-Gene is likely to be preserved as a historic relic. 
George is a great admirer of Madame Sans-Gene, and I am 
only sorry that Miss Geraldine Farrar v/as not in Paris to-day 
instead of being in Munich to take this little drive v/ith me and 
George to catch a fresh inspiration for her study of the title 
role of Giordano's new opera which she will create this winter 
in New York. 

If George had been a Latin instead of a jovial Britisher I 
think he would have embraced me instead of merely vigorously 
shaking hands with me when he said "good-by." He was just 
a bit mellow, but his humor was at its best. 

"There is a fine American gentleman that comes to Paris 
every year that won't let anybody else drive him but me," said 
George proudly. "One day I had a couple of glasses of red 
wine too much. 

" 'George,' says he, 'I won't trust myself with you; you're 
half drunk.' 

" 'What's the matter with the other half?' says I. 

"We had our drive." 

When you visit Paris after the war don't miss George. 

It is interesting to note in closing that the Federation of 
Protestant Churches in France, which includes Methodists, 
Baptists, Presbyterians and Congregationalists, has not failed 



The Soul of Paris 149 

to put itself on record as to its sentiments regarding certain 
incidents of the war. It has just issued the following manifesto 
to the Protestant world : 

"The Council of the Federation of the Protestant Churches 
of France, in the name of all French Protestantism, expresses 
its profound sorrow in seeing, after so many centuries of Chris- 
tianity, two great empires systematically violating the best estab- 
lished principles of human rights. 

"It declares its indignation, in common with all civilized 
humanity, at the destruction of Louvain [seat of a Catholic 
university] and at the bombardment of the Cathedral of 
Rheims. 

"It condemns the abuse of pious phrases, of which the 
Emperors of Germany and Austria have given scandalous ex- 
amples since the beginning of hostilities. 

"It notes with sadness how much the exploitation of the 
Deity risks in compromising true religion before the modern 
conscience. 

"And, lastly, it denounces before all Christendom the evil 
wrought by these practices which, under the cloak of evan- 
gelical utterances, conceal the denial of the religion of the 
Prophets and of Jesus Christ himself." 

Another evidence of the unity of patriotic sentiment in 
France, not only regardless of politics, but also of religion. It 
is a long time since the bloody night of St. Bartholomew! If 
Admiral Coligny could revisit this terrestial sphere I'm sure he 
would have shared the honors with Cardinal Amette on that 
memorable Sunday a few weeks ago when all Paris knelt in 
prayer at Notre Dame. 



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